


Theory of Relativity

by SonataForMyOverdosedLover



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: F/M, Sexual Content, a roller coaster of emotions that makes them... them, and a lot of feels?, and mostly without spoilers, at their best, at their worst, did I mention that?, heavy NSFW content starting chapter 3, no chronological order, oops there went the tags getting out of hand, random moments between the two
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-23 08:54:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6111424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SonataForMyOverdosedLover/pseuds/SonataForMyOverdosedLover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was the variable and she was supposed to be the constant. It never crossed his mind that all this time he might have been building all his plans on the volatile unknown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wanting not to want you won't make it so

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a set of moments between the two. I have no idea how many entries I will make and they will not be in a chronological order. I guess they could happen at any given time in the story. Since I started playing I only fell harder and harder for the two. I can't make it canon but I am working with what I have and building from there. The chapters will be short, mostly 'off-the screen' moments. They focus more on the way the two feel and interact, not on the action or the plot. So I guess, they will be spoiler-free. If however there will be spoilers I will make a note at the beginning of the chapter. Well ... enjoy? I hope.

* * *

_Wanting not to want you won't make it so_  
_It doesn't work that way_

**( you were a kindness - the national ) ||[song ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WwlPeW2eBHw)**

**( safehouse ) ||[playlist ](http://8tracks.com/sonata4overdosedlover/side-b-safehouse)**

* * *

 

She'd hum. The more she would be lost in her work, the less she would pay attention to the world around her, and, well… he envied that.

He pinned the neck of his beer bottle against the side of the pool table and hit it with his palm, popping the cap open.

Leaning against the table, he kept his eyes on her.

For hours she had been tinkering with an old jukebox, trying to bring it back to life. She had been scavenging for parts and records to repair it with for quite some time; Looted some, stole some, bartered for some... and despite it all, she was set on making the thing work again.

“Any progress with that, boss?”

“Some circuits are still acting up. Looks promising, though.”

He wasn't really interested, but he did get what he wanted when her words came out partially spoken, partially sung under the influence of her previous humming. She wasn't paying him enough attention to be her usual focused self, and he was taking full advantage of it.

“Why bother with it anyway? You can always tune in to a radio station from your Pip-Boy. Deacon let his voice low enough to mimic the recently acquired attitude of the radio station host. “Word goes 'Travis-Lonely-Miles' is doing a decent job lately.” That brought back some memories; the little adventure they had with Travis, had been hands down, one of his favourites.

“Deacon, you know I always need music in my life. How else am I supposed to keep on dancing?”

It would sound like an empty pleasantry to anyone else, but not to his ears. He knew better than to dismiss her odd language. In fact, he ended up knowing the meaning behind her words very well. She always had to be in charge of the tunes in her life. She'd dance to the music coming from her Pip-Boy, both on the long, empty, and with the dangers of the wasteland. And she had allowed him to follow into her moves, her steps, her sways. He knew he wasn't deserving any of it.... but he didn't know how to look away. He felt like a lame old joke for not being able to stop smiling around her.

She'd move her body to the music of her life, and he'd have no time left to spend with his demons. The way she vibrated consumed all of his resources. It made him feel guilty; made him feel like he was cheating his way out of his punishment… but he was too far gone in the comfort of her presence.

He knew the truth. Through it all, he always was, and always would be, a weak man.

He remained silent, waiting for her to drift away from the world outside her work. His patience was rewarded as her soft hum started to resurface.

‘I love old world widgets’ he'd say. But most times he'd only have a particular one in mind. He knew there was a stupid smile on his face, and he hid it behind his bottle of cold beer, courtesy of Buddy.

“I know you do. How could I possibly forget?”

So he had said it out loud. Habit…

“You know you won't be able to carry that jukebox around with you, right? And you barely spend any time here with all that shit that you usually drag your ass through... mind you, I'm not complaining... especially if I'm there to watch your back...”

She didn't stop or look up, but he did take note of her blood-red lips curling upwards.

“Are you implying I am wasting my time?”

“Fixing that ol' thing? Maybe. You know, I could sing to you instead. I am sure I can provide fine notes if tuned the right way.”

He always liked to toy with his chances. Push his meanings a bit outside of the safety zone, playing a dangerous game in which she could catch his chaotic truths… his S.O.S. signals.

The thing with her was that he never knew if he had been caught or not. She never confronted him on anything he'd said... and she had a perfect poker face, leaving him in doubt and making him more obvious with each try.

When she said nothing, he chuckled in his bottle.

“I am also easier to carry around; just pointing out the pros here. Sure, I may not have a magical voice, but I can take the job.”

She stubbornly kept quiet, a game they used to play quite often.

“Plus... you're not exactly making it a secret when we find the rhythm.” What was shame to them anyway?

He knew he won the round when her laughter filled the room.

At the same time, he knew he was a losing man.

She didn't give him an answer. Instead, her humming started again:, stronger, aware of the audience.

But it died in a nostalgic tune, only a sad smile to remain on her lips. Even so her hands never faltered, never changed pace, nor stopped from working.

“Careful with your words there.”

“Hmm?” Was all that he lazily let out from behind the bottle.

He told himself he should look away from her smile, or at least put some effort in trying.

“Last man who made me that offer... I ended up marrying.”

“Heh, nice try, but I ain't running anywhere. You need more than that to scare me away.”

They never felt discomfort when joking about their _‘relationship’_. That's what he always told himself. They understood boundaries. That's what he reassured himself of. What they were ... was just a placebo.

She looked up at him, and the only thought he could find was how the sight of those blue-gray eyes made him happy.

It was her turn.

But when she was about to speak, MacCready's voice broke their eye contact.

“Deacon, move your ass down here. Preston's waiting for us to check the defence lines.”

There were reasons why he disliked staying outside the Railroad. Playing by the rules while spending days at the lighthouse was really not his thing. He preferred it when she'd meet with him at her apartment in Diamond City... just the two of them, in the secluded darkness of the concrete walls. No extra work; no unnecessary interaction with people he didn't wish to know or get comfortable around; no stupid lull of the sea; no mornings spent with eyes wide open, watching how the sun uncovered the freckles on her skin; no shorts to get him distracted whenever she'd carry her long, bare legs around without a care; no sharing her with the friends she had made along the  way; no laughter along the beach as she'd play fetch with Dogmeat; no evenings spent together on the mattress she had on the balcony facing the sea, with a bottle of bourbon and endless cigarettes; no telling himself it would be the last time he'd leave his bed at night to go upstairs to her room… only to repeat it again and again. To hell with that.

She raised an eyebrow at his unusual lack of reaction. Damn his line of thoughts.

With a heavy sigh he looked towards the stairs.

“I know you're up there so don't even think about hiding.”

“Wasn't gonna!” He yelled, and placed the bottle on the pool table. He was, in all honesty, considering pretending he wasn’t there.

Eyeing the amused woman, he continued in a more hushed voice.

“Teenagers these days, am I right? Always rushing.”

“Today, grandpa.''

He froze when MacCready answered him from the bar.

“Damn, he has good ears.”

She grinned.

“Wanted to sneak up on him out in the open a few times - felt miserable for even trying.”

“Heh.”

Unwillingly, he started to move towards the stairs.

The woman returned her attention to the jukebox.

“By the way... Thanks for the offer... but I’ll stick to this baby.”

“Your loss boss, I am star material.”

He made his way down to the sound of her laughter. He had done a lot of fucked up things in his life, but at least now, there was one thing he was doing right.

His mind went back to her words, despite his better judgment. He was not scared that she might have meant any of it. She was smarter than falling for a guy like him, and he was no fool to think he'd deserve any of it. This was not a story about her, and it was not about him. This was merely stolen time. He kept repeating all of that each time he'd open his eyes in the morning and each time he'd close them at night: often enough to worry him; often enough to become a prayer. His mind, he could poison with his own lies. But he had no control over his body.  He'd always start by telling himself that what they had was a momentary distraction. But, at the end of that thought, he'd find his fingers hastily tracing the round, gold ring he had in the pocket of his jeans.

Her dead husband's wedding ring. She had given it to him for safekeeping the day she stripped down to put on the Silver Shroud disguise; told him she was afraid of losing it or forgetting it in the pockets of the costume.

She never asked for it back. And he never reminded her of it.

At his weakest moments, he'd absentmindedly spin the ring, playing a dangerous game with temptation. Just a careless slip to know how it would feel around his finger... just for a moment... just to pretend.

But he was too scared... too afraid of becoming used to the feeling. Too terrified that one day he would forget to take it off before pulling his hand out... and how would he explain that to her?  How could he tell her she had become the only honest thing left of him?

 


	2. I'm only frightened cause you finally gave me something to lose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oki, So I have a few notes to add:  
> 1\. I decided to change the rating from M to E, just to be on the safe side, partially because of the context for this chapter but mostly for future chapters.  
> 2\. I know I am always in need of a beta reader. No matter how much I re-read my own work I always miss typos and I know I can make a mess out of long phrases. If anyone feels in the mood to hand a helping eye, I would love the assistance  
> 3\. Also, so far, both titles of the chapters are actual lyrics from songs. If possible I will keep the pattern up. You can find both songs in the playlist I recently made. The link will be at the beginning of the chapter. I am annoyed that 8tracks is not so friendly lately and songs are being skipped both when streaming or when listening via youtube. It's a bummer, sorry. You can always check the tracklist.  
> So.. yeah.. any feedback (and even suggestions - if there is a certain situation you'd like to read about) is more than appreciated. Cheers, darlings!

 

 

* * *

 

_Deep inside the heart of this crazy mess  
I'm only calm when I get lost within your wilderness_

_And I'm only frightened cause you finally gave me something to lose_

**( Iron and Wine - Joy ) ||[song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uL-7GBjmkgA)**

**( safehouse ) ||[playlist ](http://8tracks.com/sonata4overdosedlover/side-b-safehouse)**

* * *

 

No drugs or liqueur had ever made him ride the waves of euphoria the way she did. She'd leave him completely wasted, abandoned and dazed. If she were to raise a blade above his head and slice his throat, he could do nothing but stare and await the end.

She'd leave him defenseless and completely lost; a traitor to all those that were depending on him. And he'd probably end in hell for his mistakes, but the only thing to plague his mind would be how in his last moments of life he had known heaven.

Funny… Sex was a terrible vice he thought he had left behind a lifetime ago.

Through the fog of his thoughts he felt his senses catching up with him and he registered the faint movement in his arms.

His fingers twitched at the base of her neck as he was coming back, tugging gently at her damp hair.

The fever of the moment was starting to fade and he could only focus on the sweat on her back and the way her breasts were pressed against his chest. The air around them was kissing goose bumps along their skins but the warmth of her body, heavy against him, was numbing the cold away.

He felt greedy. Even when there was no will left in him, his hand traveled down, to seek shelter in the heat between her thighs.

She shifted slightly at his touch but gladly harbored him.

If only he had an extra pair of arms so that he could reach for the nightstand and light a cigarette... he'd be the happiest man in the Commonwealth.

He never thought there could be something so erotic about two worn out people. And yet their sweat, the wet sheets, the smell of their used bodies... they were wrecks, caught inside the concrete walls of a dusty, old and rusting  apartment in Diamond City ... but it never felt so delirious and blissful.

When he had extended his offer for a partnership, this had not been anywhere close to what he had had in mind. Sure, the fine print might have included side benefits for him (as the more qualified and experienced party) such as shameless appreciation of her distracting posterior (from behind the safety of his glasses), but this... this was him taking off his safety belt.

They had become too obvious; judging by the rumours at the HQ they had been obvious first and guilty as charged second. He had himself to blame for the blatant stares. Her shameless vocabulary hadn't helped either but it was mostly on him since he should have known better than to generously place his own foot in her booby traps.

Yet here they were, fucking around in more than one way. As a general rule nobody cared what people in the Railroad were doing as long as they were doing their job. Dez hadn't confronted him but she clearly wasn't thrilled about it. In other circumstances, as long as the agents had their minds on their tasks, she couldn't have cared less about how they worked around boundaries. But her disapproval was justified. Even in his books, this was tempting karma a bit too much. It was one thing to cross certain lines with a stranger but she was not a stranger to him. _She had been his project_. And as Desdemona had reminded him, she was _still_ his project. What sort of person had his cake and ate it too?

He had tried to stay away; he truly had. That was why, for the longest time, whenever he had needed release, he'd keep her at a decent distance; find someone who'd fuck his needs away without giving two caps about what he wanted.

But she had slapped his ass one too many times, had been calling him names for far too long, purred too often in her sleep.

And he knew he was nothing special. Her colorful language made the minuteman clear his throat, and she liked to keep Hancock’s mind entertained.  She showered Codsworth with kisses for fuck's sake, and he swore that the robot was parading those red stamps like trophies.

But she had always been very specific about what she wanted. For starters, she wanted to get inside The Institute. She also wanted to come up with a system for running hot water. And apparently she wanted to fuck him. He was not complaining, he just couldn't understand why him. Maybe it was a comfort zone; maybe it was his charming personality that came with his 'no strings attached' policy and a constant chance that one day he'll just bugger off with his own business.

Joke’s on her cause he ended up valuing her more than anyone else in the entire Commonwealth and he was having a hard time telling her that. And he hated to admit it but there were some twisted knots he had made between them and he had no idea how to clear them out without asking her to work from her end as well.

And... he was a greedy man. Calling her a friend and someone close... would that make her backtrack? Take away this side benefit of their partnership? He'd once been through an addiction withdrawal and it had been hell. He cowered at the thought of having to give up ....

She moved cheek against his chest, brushing away the bangs of hair trapped between their skins; her lips released a long breath, her breasts glued to him; her right thigh raised higher along his hip to rest above the bone of his pelvis, unintentionally granting his hand more access to her wet core. Her heavy breathing was even and with each exhale her long hair was tickling his arm.

Yes, he was definitely not ready to give this up... so their _big talk_... had to wait a bit longer.

But his lungs were desperate for a smoke so he had to reach a compromise. He ordered his hands away from her body as he stretched after the pack of cigarettes and the lighter.

She didn't appreciate the movement as she refused to take away any of her weight.

He shook the cigarette out and let the empty pack fall on the floor.

With the cigarette between his lips he tried to push the rusty button of the old lighter but his fingers kept slipping against the stuck wheel. They smelled of her and that alone sent chills down his spine. He hadn't even realised his hand had kept itself busy all that time.

He took back the cigarette with his left hand and brought his fingers inside his mouth to clean them off. There was a feeling of dizziness at the taste of her, back on his lips.

Now that they were merely wet, but less slippery it worked just well enough to force the lighter on.

One long drag; the nicotine hitting his lungs was pure release.

“Hand me one.”

Her voice was hoarse and lazy and he grinned knowing that she was just as wasted as he felt.

“Out of luck. This was the last one.”

“Shit...” It had been an exhale more than an actual word.

“Well, one of us has been chain-smoking them all day and it hasn't been me.”

He knew she lost her interest completely when her arm fell from his torso on the sheets.

He took another long drag and his eyes traced absentmindedly over the holes in the ceiling.

“There's a question I've been meaning to ask you for some time.”

There was no reaction.

“Boss?”

After moments of silence she hid her face in his chest and her tired voice came out muffled.

“If it's been 'for some time', I am sure it can wait until the sun rises again.”

“Come on, I'm building some pillow talk here. Work with me a bit.”

He took the lethargic sigh as an agreement.

“Why Whisper?”

Her chest rose and fell a few times against him.

The question had probably seemed out of the blue for her and he liked to tell himself that he didn't know why his brain suddenly had remembered it. But the truth was he had to go back to business because they were running out of time... _She was his project_ and somewhere, at the back of his mind, he needed to make sure that he had made the right decision. He couldn't afford replacing caution with hope. The entire Railroad was at stake and there was no room for variables.

“Why not?”

He frowned. You see... there's avoiding a talk because you simply don't have an interest in the conversation and there's avoiding a talk because you deliberately want to. Granted, he might not have picked the best moment for it, when they were both exhausted and one breath away from completely giving in to sleep, but he had not been playing this game for decades without learning how to pick the right signals. Trust your instincts. And his instincts had no trust in her choice of words at that particular moment.

“I have been thinking... It seemed an odd pick. I mean... You do prefer the element of surprise out there in the field, and you're pretty decent at being stealthy ... until you totally end up bashing a guy's brains against a wall that is. But - and don't take it personally - you don't have any sense of noise volume whatsoever. I think I've run my ass into a gunfight one too many times just because you were popping a bubblegum or unwrapping a candy while we were in cover.”

The only answer she gave was the rising and falling of her chest against his.

He grinned.

“And you know...you're quite a s _creamer_...” slight tension in her muscles; good sign. “We could… maybe change your codename?”

“Or, _you know...”_ he noted the mimicked pattern in her words, “maybe it's just because you're that good.”

He couldn’t help his laughter. If only she had meant it. _Such a sly fox._

“Nice try. But I can smell flattery from a mile. You're not making this about me.”

Her right arm folded on his chest, so that she could use it as leverage.

“You just don't know how to take a compliment, do yah?”

His grin remained on his lips but a small frown slipped across his forehead. It was too late to stop it. She had this bad habit of catching him off guard whenever she acted carelessly and uninhibited around him.

His eyes followed her lazy movements; her head still against his chest, she stretched her left arm after his wrist to bring it down to her. When he caught up with her intentions he pulled his hand up, right before she could place the cigarette between her lips.

“No.”

Her lips were parted, prepared for the inhale while her eyebrows pushed closer in determination.

Instead of trying to pull his hand back down, she craned her neck up. But he had already caught a taste for a teasing game and he dragged his hand higher.

She pushed herself slightly up, after the cigarette.  When she was almost there he pulled again.

Her grip on his wrist got tighter and she followed.

Her free hand found its way to his collarbone and he contained a shiver when the piercings in her nipples tickled their way up his chest.

They fell into this game until his hand was close to his face and he could feel her heavy breaths on his lips. He put a finger on the bud of his cigarette to block her access and to keep her there.

He took her in. Her black hair that she used to wear in a tight ponytail to show her shaved sides, was now dishevelled, falling heavily, sticking at times onto her skin; her lips were swollen, and their blood-red paint was long gone, smudged on the corners and down her chin. Her eyes were hidden under the lashes of her heavy eyelids, drunk on the same rapture as he was. She was a mess. But she was entrapping, she was ravishing... heck he wished he could use all those fancy words from the old books but his mind was a blank space under her gaze... because she was one _big beautiful mess_. And if they didn't have to leave at the earliest hour of the morning, he would plunge his hand back into her hair, claw his fingers on her hip and he would take her again until they would be completely numb.

But he had to burn down his impulses, so instead he brought the cigarette to his mouth and took one long, hungry drag.

There was a sudden pressure around his neck. Her hand traveled up to his jaw and he could not name the exact moment when her lips crashed on his.

He huffed it out and her lungs took it all in. He could not look away as her eyelids fully closed, satisfaction written on every inch of her face. His eyes followed the trail of smoke that escaped her lips.

With a pleased smile she nuzzled her way down, finally settling on his collarbone, where she rested her head.

The cigarette was back between his lips.

“The agent before me... He went by Tommy Whispers, right?”

“Yeah...”

He felt a gentle shrug.

“I took his place ... seemed fitting to wear his name.”

The corners of his lips went up involuntarily. She was truly something else. Moments like these he could not understand how someone like her could be real.

But then a less pleasant thought found its way inside his mind. He turned the cigarette in his hand, fishing for the right words. He had grown to dislike doing this to her, toying around a subject, but it was second nature to him.

“Appreciate the thought. I am sure Dez even more so. He was a great agent.” Involuntarily his fingers tugged at her shoulder. “But you don't have to take anyone's place. You have your own place with us. You're part of the family now.”

He watched the trail of smoke fade away, waiting for her answer.

“Hmmm...”

Her weak voice told him that she was already slipping away and he felt a cold chill running down his spine at the realisation that she would have gotten away with it, if not for the breath she had kept a bit too long in her lungs, and her skipped heartbeats.

His jaw tensed. It didn’t have to mean anything; but it was doing nothing to ease his worries either.

She was doing more for the Railroad than any other agent, and was asking for little in return. But there had been occasional spats between her and Desdemona. She was not always approving of their methods and more than once she had made sure that the HQ was fully aware of that. She was on their side... but he was not blind. He had seen her hesitations; he had seen how fast and sharp the gears in her mind spun; he had seen the world she had outside the railroad. And that was a hazard to any agent.

He didn't like the place in which he was now.

He had vouched for her. And everything she had done since that day only cemented his beliefs. Back then he knew they needed her. And again his instincts have proven him right: anyone who knew how to put her conviction and determination to good use had one hell of an advantage. He grossed himself with his own thoughts. The Minutemen were heavily relying on her. Preston was no mastermind and he was as sincere as you could get. He probably had no idea how his boldness and transparent nature were making her gravitate around their cause. The Brotherhood on the other hand knew what to offer in order to keep her around. They had the power and the military force to back her up; maybe he was giving Maxson too little credit by taking him for a dull brute. He knew how important procedures and ranks were within the Brotherhood and yet Maxson had stepped over his own rules in order to secure her with a high rank and uncharacteristic freedom. And it bothered him that the Railroad had not been treating her any different than the rest. They needed her and at the beginning he knew that he had to make her see things their way. That had been the easy part. But the longer they kept her around the harder it got for him. Because she truly fit. Because she was not just the winning card for them anymore; because Glory was rolling her eyes less and less his way when she was around the HQ, because she was sincerely entertaining Tinker Tom’s ideas way above the limit of decency, because when handing her her dead-drops, Drummer Boy was doing so with a hint of hope in his voice, because Dez was getting a bit more sleep and her decisions were getting less cut-throat since she had joined. Because they had accepted her completely. And if anything were to happen… it could have disastrous consequences… and it would be entirely his fault.

So he could not push his concern away. Clearly not now when she had found a way inside the Institute. When she had to go inside alone. And he had to just… wait in the darkness while they would probably try to feed her their own versions of the story. And why wouldn’t he be scared? It’s what they had to offer that scared him the most. The closest she could get to her old life, away from the garbage that the world had turned into over the last 200 years; comfort, technology, safety. The Railroad had none of that; all that they had … was a _dysfunctional family._ He tensed even more. _A family that was not hers to start with_. The Institute had her son… and how could anyone compete with that?

He wished he could tell her not to listen to whatever paradise The Insitute would try to sell her. He wished he could have the courage to ask her directly if she’d ever betray the Railroad; he wished he wouldn’t be a coward and find the words to tell her to come back to h-.. _to_ _them._ But he didn’t allow himself to; he knew that he couldn’t.

Instead, part of him wished she was long asleep and she would not feel the way his arm brought her closer to his chest; and part of him hoped that this gesture he could not control would tell her everything that his words could not. 


	3. Big boys don't cry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. BIG SHOUT OUT to acciohollymae (you can find her on tumblr at http://acciohollymae.tumblr.com/) who offered to be a beta for this fanfic. You have seriously no idea of what an amazing job she is doing. Her attention and dedication are incredible and holy moly she went through this entire monster of a chapter in such a short time!!! Thank you so much, I have no idea what I did to deserve you. 
> 
> 2.content warning: yeah so, sexual content ahead. Mostly on the second half of the chapter I just went wild. First explicit NSFW work I ever wrote so you'll be the judge of that. Without giving too much of a spoiler, I'll just say up ahead that by the time this chapter takes place Deacon and Sole have already discussed about boundaries and they have experienced the dos and don'ts in their... arrangement; orgasm control, and everything you'll read in this chapter, is consensual.

* * *

_There was a time when a moment like this_  
_Wouldn’t ever cross my mind_  
_The sun will rise with my name on your lips_

 _Big boys don’t cry_  
_They don’t ask why_

**( Bastille - Driver ) ||[song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=foXqHUopCJU)**

* * *

 

The heavy door opened with a click, and he swiftly pulled the key out before slipping inside.

He was greeted by the familiar coldness of the apartment. The front entrance was the only properly lit area. Everything else was swallowed by the shadows that the lamps on the floor were creating. Often he wondered if this was a pre-war sense of home decor or if it was just some crazy lifestyle Whisper preferred. The radio at the bar was on, so he had been right in assuming he'd find her here.

His shoulders lost some of the tension they had held while crossing the market in Diamond City, and now, more relaxed, he removed his cap, discarding it on a cabinet near the workbench. He looked inside the apartment, but she wasn't on the ground level.  When noise reached him from above, amused, he shook his head and made his way to the bar, where he grabbed a bottle of whisky and a glass.

“I heard there's a new cat in town.”

Deacon had promised himself to act neutral when he saw her again, but upon noticing his presence, her sing-song voice stirred something in him. Something he knew it shouldn’t have.

“Really? You _heard_ that? Where from?” Her voice was vibrating with delight.

As he let his body fall on the sofa, a smile sneaked up to his lips. The disagreement they had before parting ways had been buried and forgotten. That whole synth business at Warwick homestead had ended better than expected, but it had left them in an argument. That was when she called for a break. She always did that. Right before she could become a storm, she'd step away from him. Of course he didn’t like it, but he was too proud to tell her that her silence treatment was affecting him.

He was relieved to find out that it was all water under the bridge. He knew he was being a coward, but he hated confrontations.

“Coincidentally, I crossed paths with your journalist bff on my way here. She told me the craziest of stories. Something about the two of you spending some quality time at the beach, killing gunners, flying power armors... you know... typical girly stuff.” He took his time pouring whisky in the glass. “Ah yes, and something about making an impression on the Atom Cats.”

“Would you look at that. Such a coincidence. And you were around Diamond City at the right time.”

“I know, right? Instincts, boss!”

Deacon cracked his neck. While she had been away, he had taken the opportunity to add more pieces to his puzzle **.** After returning from The Institute, nothing much had changed. She had become their inside agent, and she played the part without a single complaint. As a whole that was a good thing: to know that she was on their side still; that The Institute hadn't gotten to her. But this _lack_ of changes bothered him a little: no big revelation, no big questions after returning from being among them. If he were to admit it, something had in fact changed. He could feel it. Before this, she used to rely more on his knowledge; used to seek him out for answers regarding the world; used to share her thoughts with more ease. Now... now he felt like more of a spectator. He could see the clear moments when she was deep in thought, but she was sharing less and less of them with him.

What bothered him the most had been her lack of reaction when it came to her personal matters. Only once had he pushed for answers in the most casual way he could. And it had burnt him more than if someone had poured acid on him. It had been a clear warning. She was one loaded gun of emotions. She might not be the most rational person alive, but her brain was sharp and she was smart as a whip. Deacon had only himself to blame for forgetting her radscorpion-like sting at times.

He took a shot from his glass.

 

 

_“Hey... about your son… were you able to find anything about him?”_

_Her lips touched the cigarette; her eyes darted out around the HQ for anyone who could be listening._

_“I did.”_

_Silence followed._

_“Is he... is he alright?”_

_“He's alright.”_

_Her short answers were tugging at his nerves._

_“Want to talk about it?”_

_“No.”_

_“Hey, listen, I am not asking this as a fellow Railroad agent. I am asking as a friend.”_

_A gentle smile. She looked away. It was such a sad sight to see._

_“No you're not.”_

_His heart skipped a bit._

_Her eyes turned to him._

_“Let's just drop this conversation, OK?” she paused. “You don't have to worry. It doesn't change anything.” Second pause. A tug at the corner of her lips but she wasn't smiling anymore. “Sure I could have lived without the shock of finding out that I've actually missed more than sixty years out of my son's life... but I don't hold it against you. I understand your reasons.”_

_He felt rigid as a stone, and his lips would not part to release any words._

_Her hand gently cupped his jaw. Her warm eyes tried to lock on his though the glasses. Her thumb caressed his lips, and she replaced it with her mouth. Tender, careful, forgiving._

_“Family comes first. I know.”_

_She stepped away, taking her sad smile with her as Desdemona called for a talk._

 

 

He pressed his fingers against his eyes, pushing his glasses up. Ever since then, he had been angry with himself. Angry with himself because she refused to be. She should have not been ok with his actions. He was angry because he had let his guard down around her. Tom had warned him that she was like a walking and breathing recorder; that she had a photographic memory and a way with numbers that could put a robot to shame. He had taken her abilities lightly, but how much had she seen? How many details had she put together? How many truths had he allowed to be slipped her way?

That's why he took their time off as a chance to review everything that they had gone through, everything since day one; it was also a chance to also guess at the things she was leaving unspoken - the latter with less success.

The change of pace from the radio brought him back from his thoughts. He removed the vest and unbuttoned the sleeves in order to roll them up.

“So... do you have anything to say about the whole Atom Cats deal?”

With one hand, he grabbed the wig and placed it on the back of the sofa; with the other hand he went again for the bottle.

“Uuummm... No, not really.”

A grin found its way to his lips. She was in a very good mood for someone who had arrived from the long road only a few hours ago.

“But I could show you something instead.”

His eyes skipped up, but the stairs were around the corner, not granting any access to what she was up to from upstairs.

“Is it a pre-war book? Please tell me you found another one? Or a movie?”

“No. Something better.”

Right as she was finishing her words, Deacon heard her jump down the stairs, and in a split second, she was finally in his line of sight. By God, had she been right- it was incontestably something better. She spun on her feet, and his eyes took in her long, bare legs and her well-toned thighs; up to her firm ass, generously cupped by a small pair of green underwear.

Now _that_ was a sight he had missed.

Deacon was sure that she wanted to show him something else completely other than her physique, so he had to force his eyes up to her back, focusing on the leather jacket she was wearing. There, from between her shoulders, the crazy Atom Cats logo was gaping stupidly at him.

“Nice jacket. Great design. Perfect target practice for any sniper. 50 points for the eyes. You know… I’ve seen better in Capital Wasteland. Cooler."

She pivoted on her toes and threw him one of her wildest grins.

“You're just jealous.”

“Whoa- yeah, got me there. Completely.” He took a swing at his glass. “Why would I be jealous again?”

“Cause cats are totally cooler than bunnies.”

“Now hold on right there. Don't start an argument you can't win.”

“Too late! You can eat dust, ‘cause you're talking with the newest cat in the gang **,** _Jack_.”

The sweetness in her voice was dripping with sarcasm and he wondered how much longer she could hold the act.

“You really joined the Atom Cats?”

She dared flash those perfect teeth at him.

“Meow.”

“Don't you think you're a bit too old for this, pussycat?”

A snort escaped her lips as she waltzed her way to the bar after a glass.

“Bite me.”

“And here I thought you'd never ask. Get closer and turn around.”

She arched one of her thick eyebrows at him, and in a few steps she was near the sofa. But instead of joining him, she grabbed the bottle and sat on the short table in front of him.

The woman lowered her body and took a seat, pouring some whisky in her own glass. And all this time he kept his eyes on the unzipped jacked, hoping that the weak lamp behind him would cast enough light so that he could catch a glimpse of her small, round breasts. She was shamelessly naked under the leather jacket.

“How have things been around HQ?”

“I can't really say; didn't spend much time there. I do know that Drummer boy has a list of messages to pass on to you.”

“Oh joy.”

“How was the seaside?”

“... Oh you know... the usual... irradiated... deadly. Piper is a lousy swimmer. But she unexpectedly rocks the power armor. I think Rowdy, the chick in charge of them at the garage might have a crush on her.”

“And _how_ exactly did you become an Atom Cat?”

As he leaned forward, he pretended his arms weren't traveling up her legs.

“Through my sheer _awesome-osity_.”

She took her time, emptying her glass.

“We were at the garage when gunners attacked.”

He added pressure on her thighs.

“They had the area surrounded and all the exits blocked.”

Her muscles tensed under his touch.

“They had probably been planning the attack for quite some time because they were prepared with a rocket launcher, grenades and one hell of a minigun.”

His fingers were tracing the hem of her underwear, slipping under along her hips.

“The Cats were outnumbered.”

Deacon was not even trying to hide his grin.

“And then what?”

“I was running out of ammo; hiding behind the counter and the odds of outrunning the bullets were not in my favor.”

“Quite a predicament. Told yah... Always have grenades on you. They are life-saving devices.”

She rolled her eyes and filled her glass again before placing the bottle near her.

“Anyway, as I was saying – I was trapped inside. But then I remembered something. So I crawled along the hall, into the back rooms and I used the ladder to get on the roof of the Red Rocket.” She made a dramatic pause. “And there it was: a sweet set of power armor they were keeping on display. I ran to it and slipped inside. The second it came to life - bam! I landed so hard the whole ground shook.”

“Oh, this is going to be bloody, isn't it?”

“'Course! I powered up the core, and gunner – meet the pain train! Snatched the minigun, grabbed the guy by the collar, and sent him flying into the water.”

He had to pull back as her arms started a reenactment of their own as if the weapon was back in her hands.

“It rained bullets until it was just me and one unlucky bastard left.”

“Oh ho – showdown.”

His hands were playing along her ankles.

“When the guy pulled out a grenade, I knew then and there I wasn’t going to be able to reload in time.”

“And?!”

He faked the gasp the same way she was faking her story-telling. In moments like these, it was hard to tell if she was just playing his game or making fun of him. It mattered little. He loved it when she was like this.

“Then I grabbed the minigun by the barrel; turned it around and kept my eyes on the gunner. The moment he threw the grenade, I followed its course; readied my weapon - and like in an old game of baseball, I hit the grenade so hard it flew back at the gunner. On impact it blew him to pieces.”

He was staring at her with his mouth opened and eyebrows raised up in shock.

All that he wanted to do at that moment was to ravish that grinning, lying mouth. But he could not let her get away with it.

There was silence between the two, only the rhythmic tune of the radio filling the room.

“Really... you hit a grenade...”

“Yes!”

“With a minigun.”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

Damn, that overly-dramatic reaction was doing things to his mind.

“Oh you're good...” He let out a hiss... “I am having a hard time figuring out at what part you started the bluff.”

She had the audacity to brighten her freckled face with an even bigger grin.

“You can't come up with ridiculous stories like these and expect people to buy them, boss.”

She lifted the glass to her lips.

“I'm only learning from the best.”

“Ouch, Whisper. That. Stung.”

 _Crap, his quick mouth._ He realised his mistake before she actually looked away. Lately, it seemed that she was bothered each time he was using her code name. He didn’t know why, but instead of trying to find out the reason behind it, he preferred to avoid the subject completely. Come to think of it, with all the things he knew about her, he didn’t know her name.

It was funny how they worked. For each story he was coming up with, she was keeping a secret. If he were to ask P.A.M. to do the math on them, she'd probably tell him their odds were improbable. And yet here they were, rocking the hell out of those odds. She never questioned his stories, and he never asked for answers. That wasn’t making them feel weird; it made them feel lucky.

“Do you wanna hit the road with me tomorrow?”

He knew he was forgiven. It was good she was always there to fix everything.

“You don't even have to ask. But here’s a question for you.” He was again aware of the way his hands had traveled back up her legs.

“Go on.”

“What do we do until tomorrow?”

Her grin was contagious.

“Whatever we do - the jacket stays on.”

The corner of his lips fell instantly.

“Oh - Really?'” He did not sound exasperated, did he?

“Really!”

She was enjoying this too much. Yet, he was a man of multiple perspectives.

“And the panties?”

Suddenly, she looked as if she was putting real thought into it, but they both knew better.

Her legs left the ground and crawled onto the sofa, trapping him there.

“Hummm... the panties are optional.”

Ah, now he was getting somewhere.

“I was hoping you'd say that.”

She was something different, and he loved how he could come up with entire stories just by reading her expressions.

If she was ever capable of any maliciousness, he had not witnessed it. Her grins were smart, but they always held comfort. Deacon knew that the more he was tracing her in his mind and memory, the more rules he was breaking; his own rules.

But her bare foot slipped under his shirt, and her touch on his skin brought him back to the moment. Well, regret can come later. He had a long list anyway; not like he had a place left for salvation. He had burnt too many bridges and felt too many debacles behind. If there was a God, the God he occasionally caught her pray to, Deacon knew that He had no forgiveness left for his sinning hands.  

He knew what kind of reaction she was searching for; Deacon's traitorous skin made him ticklish, but he managed to stay composed, grab her calf, and pull it away before giving her the satisfaction of fidgeting under her teasing touches.

At the same time, his right hand went for her other leg as well, and ever so slowly, he dragged her along the table, closer to him.

He lifted her left leg, and as he was placing it over his shoulder, his mouth planted a kiss and a gentle bite on her inner thigh.

“Ah, I almost forgot.”

She was not fooled, and he knew it by the way her eyebrow arched.

“Before I get completely carried away – P.A.M. found us a location where we can look for the pre-war admin password that The Patriot needs. Dez wants you in the field as soon as possible.”

“And you forgot to mention this.”

“Can you blame a man? I got distracted.”

“Aha.” He felt her pull her leg away. “And this mission has _nothing_ to do with the fact that you were accidentally around Diamond City just when I got back.”

“I guess it does look like that. But I'd call it more of an excuse. Drummer Boy is responsible for delivering messages. I say I did us both a favor. He gets a job off his list, and well... I might get something decent out of it too.”

“Decent?” Her eyes narrowed. She finished her glass. “You know, now that I think about it, Desdemona seemed pretty eager to get the mission going, so maybe we should just speed it up; pack things and leave now.”

She didn't wait, and even if his brain was telling him that the woman in front of him was just toying with him, he did frown at the thought that she might just be cruel enough to leave him aching and bothered.

That's when he secured his grip on her legs, and with one powerful tug, he dragged her to him. She lost her balance and ended up in his lap, back sprawled on the table.

“Oh, I am sure it can wait until tomorrow. You just got back; might need some rest and a familiar bed.”

Lying on the table, not bothering to get up, she glanced at him suggestively.

“Judging by the way you're looking at me, I'm not holding high hopes that I will be getting any of that.”

He broke the eye contact to enjoy the sight of his hands tracing her shapes; from her thighs, up her hips and stomach. He peeled the jacket completely open so that he could see the dark ink of her wide under-breast tattoo.

Normally, he thought little of tattoos... well, any type of body mark; even scars. Whenever he would get any, and he used to have his share, he'd take care of them. Scars had a story to tell. The only stories he was allowed to share were those he could tell through his carefully picked words. But she was no spy; her body was an unfolding map. Her freckles, her splotches and scars, her tattoos and pierced nipples.

“Are you planning on doing something other than staring? Because this is a rather uncomfortable position for me.”

“You say that now…”

He leaned in, over her, pulling her pelvis into his. The pressure against his crotch was making him go crazy. He watched her; admired how her expression was turning heavier and heavier with lust. He loved doing that, and he always preferred to focus on the effect he had on her, rather than the other way around. Just the thought of acknowledging what she could make him do scared him to death.

His hands gripped her hips instinctively, as if it was something he had been doing all his life.

He hid his face in the curve of her neck and traced his nose up her jaw. Going up, he forced her face to tilt to the side, finding his way to the lobe of her ear. He felt her hold her breath in anticipation. He knew he shouldn’t… he really shouldn’t. But the words were already out before he could stop them.

“Mmmm… I dig this new fragrance you're wearing; the seaside; that's an odor hard to get rid of.”

She pulled her head away, and he knew she must have rolled her eyes, judging by her voice.

“Gee Deacon, you sure know how to make a woman feel wanted.”

“Aaaw, you don't have to worry. It's not bothering me.” He lifted his head to look at her. “I can hold my breath while I kiss you.'”

Her lips pressed together and she glared at him.

“You shitfa-“

He ended up laughing before her sentence ended. She was angry, and he knew he was a jerk way too often but her frowns were worth it each time.

When he lowered his face for a kiss to make amends, she turned her face away. That only made his grin wider. He went for it again and she did the same.

“No; you don't deserve any.”

“Oh come on, kitty-cat. Don't be such a sourpuss.”

He was so going to pay for the tease. The more he tried to steal a kiss, the more she enjoyed making it difficult for him. It started with the shake of her head, then her neck, and slowly she put her entire body into motion. Chills ran down his spine. The good, dangerous kind.

That's when he started to quickly dive for rapid bites on her jaw and chin as she kept turning her head away, having a hard time hiding her arousal and keeping her laughter in check.

But her body kept arching under him, and he was past laughing. The boundaries they had between fun and lust have always been blurry and chaotic but not once had they read the signals wrong. They preferred not to talk, but they had a particular way of asking and giving permission though their eyes. As far as they were, they had yet to reach a limit.

His bites had started as simple, gentle grinds of his teeth against her skin. But with each try they were gripping harder, longer. It was less and less of a game; and with each bite her breaths were getting heavier, louder.

Just the right moment. He needed her still so he could witness the effect he had on her. Watching her from above, he forgot to blink when her body froze; when her back tensed; when her breath hitched; when her eyes went wide open.

He had not warned her; no gentle caress, no slow tease as his hand moved past her panties and his finger slipped inside her; he had been a shrewd bastard.

And he waited - waited for her to fall into a false sense of comfort. That's when his finger went deeper, his hand pressed hard against her core.

Her body shivered, and she gasped for air. She needed to close her eyes to break the spell she had on him. When her hands went up, fingers clenching on his arms, he went for one last bite at the corner of her chin. But this one would leave a mark.

A sound of pleasure escaped her lips, and his mouth started to travel down her neck; pressing against her skin as if he could tear it open. When he reached her collarbone, he stopped to leave another mark. His eyes were closed, and his reason was shutting down at how good she felt back in his hands.

He had to stop, as he was almost off the sofa and entirely on top of her. This was not his original plan, and he doubted the small table could hold both of them.

Deacon heard her sigh when he pulled back; being wanted... he was still trying to get used to the feeling.

But as he leaned back on the sofa, he took her underwear with him, slowly dragging them down.

She didn't wait for him to lift one of her legs onto his shoulder, tickling his ear. He would have given in to the feeling, but again, he caught her intentions at the last minute. He overreacted, regretting the moment when he tensed and gripped her ankle all too suddenly. He had panicked. Deacon tried to grin his way out of it but her kind smile told him she had seen through him, and she had accepted it. He should have just let her knock his sunglasses off; she had seen him countless times without them by now. But it had been an automatic reaction: self-defense; the glasses usually came off on his own terms; they had agreed to work on that and try to change that habit of his when they were alone - - it was the least he could do to show her that she had his trust. But she was supposed to ask for permission before removing them. The woman dragged her other foot up his chest, to his shoulder, taking their minds away from their mistakes.

Without a warning, he grabbed her hips and lifted her lower back up, pinning her thighs against his shoulder.The smell of her reached him, and he swallowed in anticipation. His hands traveled to her stomach, her weight supported on his arms as he forced her middle off the table.

His nose traced the inside of her thigh and he felt her muscles tense, earning a hum of pleasure from her lips.

“Shit, Deacon,… _Devla ***** (God)"_

Her eyes were on him. He dragged his lips along her leg. Her hips pushed up, making him grin. He drew closer; slowly, hesitantly. It was obvious what she wanted, but that was not the way he wanted her to ask for it.

He was inches away from her entrance, hovering above, breathing heavily and barely touching her folds with the tip of his lips. He looked up. Her head was turned, her eyes closed

_Almost, but not there yet._

He held his breath and laid one peck just above her pelvic bone. Her left thigh twitched.

“You know, I was thinking about something while you were away.”

Her entire body went heavy, all the tension he had built up disappeared and turned into annoyance.

“You are not doing this... again...”

She refused to open her eyes in hopes that he would give up on the act. Unfortunately for her, he had other plans. God, how he loved messing with her mind.

“It’s always been bugging me. Is it just me, or does Slocum's Joe have a... nasty... ring to it?”

“What even?!”

She sighed, and finally she tilted her head towards him. She was preparing to lift herself on her elbows.

“You can’t fuckin’ tell me you were thinking about that bloody donut sho-aah”

Her words broke when his mouth crashed down and he tasted her.

“You son of a gu-ugh.”

The sight of her, conflicted between anger and thrill, was incredibly arousing.

She would not be allowed to talk. Not under his touch. His tongue dragged along her walls and he listened to the quickening rhythm of her breaths.

She did nothing to stop her moans. The way she never shied away from telling him how good he was making her feel always left him defenseless, quivering with desire. She never muffled her sighs; never bit her moans; neither swallowed her shrieks nor controlled her screams. It was always problematic whenever they were fooling around in a less private place. Granted, they never showed affection in public. They kept at a neutral distance and never held their eye more than they should. However that hadn’t stopped her from screaming his name through the elevator shaft of the Harbormaster hotel or from swearing on the Heavens when he fucked her behind the altar of Cambridge Church.

He barely reached her core, tracing his tongue along her entrance, only to stop occasionally to place long, gentle kisses on her labia. It was making her agonize with need. And yet she was still patient.

His hand traveled up her chest, his fingers reaching the valley between her breasts.

“Just think about it. Sloooo-cum-”

Her palms smashed into the table, and she let out something that sounded dangerously close to a growl.

He had to bite his lip to avoid showing how much he loved toying with her.

“Deacon.shut.up.”

He squeezed her breast, and his index finger ran circles around the piercing in her nipple. Her body reacted instantly, pushing forward into his touch.

Before going back down on her, he glanced a moment longer at her face; at her eyes, almost hidden under the heavy eyelids and at her soft lips; those lips he wanted to kiss, grip between his teeth until they reddened. Instead, his every thought was focused between her legs.

She started humming to the rhythm that his tongue was dictating, vibrating between moans and mewls. Her middle, still hanging in midair, started to shake as her hands looked for support on the edges of the table. Blindly, she hit the whiskey glasses, and her hand clenched around one of them.

Deacon pressed his tongue right against her clit, and her long sigh ended in a high-pitched whimper. His mind was thrown into a spin. Hell, he almost could not feel his legs anymore. Nothing, no one, had ever been so openly, so unconditionally, so foolishly and shatteringly - his. He had gotten used to having nothing. The Railroad had him instead, and that was enough. But now... it made him shake with both fear and want; he knew that if he were to ask her then and there to shout his claim over her, she would.

He froze; a cold wave rushed through his bones.

 _What the fuck was he doing?_ It was not supposed to happen like this. It was not supposed to happen at all.

He could not hold onto to someone like her. He felt panic build up inside the walls of his head, but his head was between her legs.

He thought he saw himself running away through the door and never coming back. He could still do it, right? It wasn't too late.

Deacon was brought back by her cry of frustration. That made him realize that he had completely stopped.

"What. Now?!!!"

He could not see her eyes anymore. Her head was tilted back, her expression hidden by her round chin and her well defined jawline.

He focused on the place at the base of her neck where her two collarbones met. Just under that soft dimple, a few inches under, was the small black cross she had tattooed. There was something about the geometry of those elements that always set his mind at ease. It was better than watching the sky during a starry, irradiated night.

A smile crept its way to his mouth.

“Huh... I must be getting old. I wanted to say something but I forgot.”

An exasperated growl escaped her lips.

“Deacon. If you don't use your mouth to make me come, I swear to god - I'll glass you.”

He eyed the glass in her hand. Her fingers were white, hand fisted around it, and he was almost tempted to take it as a challenge.

He felt as if he should be worrying, as if his previous panic was justified... but he couldn't remember why.

His hand clenched on her skin of her thigh, and he caressed his cheek against her leg as he went back down.

Gentle bites, teasing kisses; he kept her still each time she skipped under his touch.

His tongue slipped inside of her and stroked up and down, just enough to reach her sensitive spot and leave right before she could commit herself to the ecstasy.

When the muscles of her stomach started to shake and her hips started to thrust up hurriedly, he laid her back down and pushed her up the table. Her legs hung down his back, and he could feel one of her heels trying to pin him against her body.

It didn’t hurt. It just filled him with a sense of pride at how every part of her body was reacting to him.

Her moans became higher and faster. Her right hand twitched when he started sucking on her core, and she knocked the bottle of whiskey off the table.

The strong smell of alcohol reached him as the liquid spilled and trickled its way under her swaying hips.

Her back suddenly arched, and she breathed out a cry of pleasure.

“Oh God...”

He pressed his mouth harder, reached deeper, and let his moan vibrate into her.

She lost control over her arms, desperately grinding against the table. Her middle jerked up as he funneled his lips closer around her clit and sucked.

She was there, at the highest point before she could unfold. And if he would have had any mercy, he could have allowed her to come undone. Instead, he stopped. It was the act of a madman; but she had drained his last drop of sanity.

Her eyes snapped wide open. For a split of a second she seemed dazed, lost, and at the realization of what she had been denied, it all turned into desperation.

It was the most strange and euphoric thing he had ever felt. His heart sank with guilt, but a strange hunger took over him at the same time; his mind was in a haze.

Deacon was petrified by the glorious sight that she offered with all her being, and he lost control over his reactions.

It was her whimpers that reached him first.

“No... no, no; no, no, no, no, no.”

Her desperate touch lifted the fog from his mind as she gripped his arms, in an attempt to push herself back to his mouth. But he refused to oblige, lifting his head just slightly.

Her chest shook as she exhaled in frustration through gritted teeth. Her hands pulled at his skin as he tried his best to keep her still.

Even if he wanted to, he could not look away from her. Not just yet. Completely out of control, she was captivating in that moment.

The corners of his lips twitched, and he grinned. By God, he grinned as visibly and powerfully as he was able to before his lips started trembling; he grinned until his muscles could not stretch anymore; until he could not feel the stinging sensation at the corner of his eyes; until he fooled the blurry sight, and until he knew it was safe to blink again.

How awful would it be? For him to break like that in front of her? Just because of the way her fingers had slipped along his hands and locked with his; just because he was stupid enough to notice that they fit there better than any trigger he had ever pulled; just because it felt better than anything else he had ever held. And it was painful. Because they never felt like they were meant to happen like this. Because there was nothing grand, nor special about them. Because his heart had already been consumed. Because, were this world not broken by the hands of men, she would have never been part of his life. And for that one moment he fell as low as blessing everything that had fucked them up; the war, the bombs, Vault-Tec, and the moment that the Institute had opened her vault for the first time. If she were to know his thoughts, he had no doubt she'd find herself disgusted by them, by him. But before he'd allow reason back into his mind, that part of him that was scum, that part of him that suffered, that part of him that had inflicted pain and had walked the wrong line, that part of him that thought there would be no end to his atonement; all those things that were making it hard to breath each and every day... felt vindicated; and it felt as if there could be an end and there could be a new beginning.

She tugged at his hands, trying to free hers, but he refused to let them go. Eventually, her hands slipped out of his grip, and they searched for his face.

“Don't stop now, damn-you!”

He dragged one of his hands between her legs and walked two of his fingers around her entrance, parting the wet folds, but denying her any touch that could quicken her release.

Her hands traced his cheekbones, reached his ears, and he found himself unable to stop the wide smile that grew there. Her hands roamed upwards, and she knocked the sunglasses off his nose with her violent attempts to pull him back into her. He let her take them down. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't stop his shades from dropping to the ground. She deserved to see him at his most vulnerable.

His hand kept teasing her folds, turning her into a pleading mess. He wanted to greedily touch himself, but he knew that he wouldn't last long. The way her hands were desperately fighting to grasp him and bring him back, the way he had to shake her fingers from his face - his chuckles turned into pure laughter. He was turned on, but there was something else there; something that made him relaxed, calm. He shouldn't be torturing her like that, but he couldn't help himself. He never could; it was a game they often played. Tormenting her was making him delirious; knowing that she'd do virtually anything under his touch. But better than that was seeing her riding the waves of her orgasm; that was his drug. It was a surreal experience that made him feel both a martyr and a sinner; her sweet release after the prolonged agony cleansed and condemned him at the same time. Knowing her, sharing this level of intimacy with her made him often think of the irony of the name he was currently wearing. With her under his touch, maybe he truly was a Deacon; and he could not tell if admitting that was virtue or a blasphemy.

The craving for release in her voice pulled him away from his thoughts, but she knew how it worked, and she had to ask for it properly. For someone like him, who could speak the truth just through his actions and not through his words, it was strange how much it turned him on to hear her beg.

It was strange and alluring to have this antithesis between them. His body never lied; he had to keep himself in check, hidden, to avoid any of his action betraying him; his words - they had no shame, they had no limit. She, on the other hand, was another story. Her words were gauche, and; her words were straight; she'd rather use half a truth than say a full lie. When she had to lie, she'd turn to silence and use her body; a shy smile instead of a negative answer; a fake disinterest when the others would not like her truth. Her body was faster to react to her mind than her words. He did not mind; he tried to learn her secret meanings, but the further he got, the more he was becoming weary of her silences.

And right now he wanted no silence; he wanted no secrets; his body was hers to question and read; and he wanted her the same way he was offering himself.

He knew her breaking point; when she really wanted him, when she was ready to shatter and let him pick the pieces and rearrange them, she'd say 'please'.

“Come on, Deacon.”

So he kept teasing and waiting for her; building her up until that one word would escape her lips.

“Don't friggin’ sto-ugh-”

She was almost there. It was in her breaths and in her cries. It was in the way her body arched, the way her hands grabbed with need and the way her legs pressed against him with urgency.

And then her body eased, her warm fingers dragged along his temples, her thumbs traced his eyebrows, and caressed his ears, his every sensitive spot she had mapped since her hands had touched him for the first time. That haste had suddenly vanished and she searched his eyes. He had burned her out, and for a split second he asked himself if it had been too much. Her face was still painted with want but there was something different in the way she was looking at him; something in the way her lips formed a longing, kind smile, and in the way the savage need in her hands had died out in favor of holding him as if he was made of glass. Something completely new was happening; she had never looked at him the way she was now. He could feel the heat of her body, but it had been the warmth of her gentle whisper that had set him on fire.

“I've missed you.”

And with those three words she had never said before, she managed to make the room spin. Somewhere at the back of his mind he felt as if this was a place of no return.

He wished he could say those words back, but he couldn’t. And it wasn't because he was scared of them; it wasn't because of how heavy their meaning was; it was because the moment he'd let them out they might sound fake. Fake, like the rest of his words. He didn't want to hear himself desecrating and butchering them. He wanted her to know exactly how much he had missed her; how much he regretted letting her leave the way she had; and how angry he was with himself for allowing those feelings to exist in the first place.

And she would know; she would feel it with her entire being.

When he shoved her hands away from his face, he didn't hold back anymore. He went right for her spot, and sucked with hunger. She had not been ready for his assault, and with a cry, she found her release too soon. His mouth shifte down to her entrance and he replaced his tongue on her clit with his finger, never giving her a chance to ride off her waves. He felt her come; he felt her smell, sweet and metallic; it had mixed with the persisting smell of the seaside, faintly lasting through the clean, oily scent of the soap she had recently used; and through all of that he sensed the spilled alcohol that had washed her skin; he could smell it, and he could feel it in his mouth as he lapped further down, then back up. He was completely drunk on the intoxicating mix of her smell, taste, and affections.

“Oh God.”

Driving her mad was his drug. He loved doing everything with her. She'd often take the lead, not because he wouldn’t, but because he used to not know how far he was allowed to go. She'd dare him more each time, and he'd climb up to that chance. But no matter where they ended, this was still his favorite; the taste of her in his mouth and the sight of her pushed to the edges of control.

She hissed through the tides of pleasure, and he didn't dare let her go. He didn't stop. Her shoulders pushed back, her arms slipped on the wet surface of the table and she came one more time.

The woman started to shake and pull away when he showed no sign of stopping.

She gnashed her teeth in that delirious moment between bliss and pain, and Deacon had to hook her wrists to pull her back down.

“Oh shit, Deac-”

Her plea was choked when another wave was forcefully built inside of her. She cried out, swearing and gasping for air, and when she felt herself reaching a new peak she tried to struggle out. Her middle back started to shake uncontrollably and he had to keep her steady with his arms. Once freed, her hands tried to push him away. His fingers clawed, and he knew there would be bruises left on her hips the same way he knew that there would be bruises left on his back from her frantic kicking.

She was putting one hell of a fight and it was getting almost impossible to keep her still. He secured an arm around her stomach, and brought the other hand down, between her legs, where his fingers found her clit. The chaotic and restless friction pushed her into a third orgasm.

This time it had been too strong. As she came, her back buckled and the muscles of her stomach tensed until she started to shake. It had been so powerful that in the next moment she convulsed and bent forward off the table and into his arms, hands gripping the collar of his shirt, her breasts crushed against her knees. He replaced his fingers with his mouth again in order to hold her. He had to fall back against the sofa to sustain the weight of her on his shoulders. He moaned into her and he felt her squirt in his mouth, her whole body breaking into a furious seizure.

He was taken by surprise; he had never unfolded her or anyone else like that before. But he didn't pull away. He took it all, as much as he could. And still, he felt her dripping past his mouth, down his chin and neck, and unto his shirt. _Shit._ He was completely turned on. He was high on her, and he felt his legs trembling. This was madness; this was unforgivable and it was rapture.

The room might as well have disappeared around them. He let her fluids warm his throat until it finally stopped; but her body refused to yield. She kept shaking in spasms and she could not take a hold of herself. Her left leg slipped off his shoulder and she slowly followed down into his lap. At times the waves would slow down only to intensify again. Her hand was trembling and gripping at the back of his head as heavy sighs and whimpers kept escaping her lips, muffled in his neck.

His hands slipped under her leather jacket, taking it off while she kept collapsing under his touch. When the woman was entirely naked in his arms, something in him radiated with a sense of contentment, as if for the first time he was holding something that was completely his. He walked his hands up and down, soothingly, along her back while she did her best to curl up in his lap. He was amazed how her orgasm went on even after all that time. He held her closer, ran his lips across her temples, tangled her hair around his fingers and whispered little nothings into her ear.

Like a fire her fever was burning out; slowly, lulling, her tempest turned into a faint tremble until all that was left was a steady, heavy breathing.

He placed his head on top of hers and his eyes gazed over the wet wood of the table. The alcohol had dripped on the floor and on his pants, and she had stained his shirt with it. The collar of his shirt was soaked in her release. If he had not still been in the same state of euphoria as her, he would have probably grinned like a fool. Her taste was still in his mouth, and he loved the stingy sensation of coldness on his skin where the air was starting to dry it off.

His right hand went down, past the belt of his pants and his fingers crawled inside, forcing the zipper open.

A raspy breath escaped his lips and his hand stroked up and down; slowly; firmly.

His eyes closed.

The woman in his arms flinched, the head tilting to look down, the hand resting at the back of his neck slipping down his chest towards his waist, guided by a powerless purpose.

“No. Don't.” he stopped her.

She froze and obliged.

There was something excruciatingly erotic about jerking off with her completely naked, exhausted, on top of him.

His hand went down to the base, freeing his erection out of his pants.

The woman relaxed again against him, humming tiredly.

“Give me your mouth.”

Lazily she looked up at him, parting her lips and waiting for him to claim them.

His kiss was as demanding as his words.

He bit her lip hard, and the movement of his tongue intensified at the same time with the rhythms of his hand.

The thought of her tasting herself from his mouth was ecstatic, and he felt himself throb for release.

_“Don't come.”_

Her breathy whisper sent chills down his spine, and his body obeyed her against his will.

He opened his eyes just to meet hers. Her hand traveled up and wiped his wet chin; his in return slowed its movement, as if guided by her own lethargic, painfully slow pace.

He wanted to gain control again, but he was entrapped by the fire in her eyes. 

“Don't come.” Her words said but the movement of her mouth ordered him to do the opposite. Her lips traced his wet chin, shamelessly licking the remnants of her fluids, then back to his lips.

His hand kept at heavy stroke, but he could not take his eyes from hers. He could not breathe. His jaw tensed under the cruel tension she was keeping him in, but in spite of that he kept obeying.

She smiled tenderly under his lips. His eyes were watering in his fight to deny release to his own body while his hand kept building the pressure.

“Don't come.” she grinned, and that alone nearly made him lose control. He felt a shiver run through his entire being and he shook, then he choked, and erupted in a convulsive fit of laughter.

The woman held his head still in both her hands, and he could not stop the hysterical laughter.;

“Fu-”

Another wave of heat thrust his hips up, and he was losing to a self-inflicted torture.

“Don't come.”

He couldn't tell why he was doing it anymore; forfeited in a storm, he could not say if he was laughing or crying. He did not know if it was pleasure, pain, misery, or elation.

His vision was blurry and he had to let the tears fall just to be able to see her - he could lose sight of her; _he would not_ ; it would mean to lose himself; he laughed harder, deeper, through dry hiccups and he did not know what to do with himself when the salty taste of tears reached the corners of his mouth.

His eyes never left hers; those blue eyes, the color of a sky he had only heard of.

Deacon forced himself into the sofa, and clenched his jaw. His hand stroked the tip of his cock and he thought he was going to go mad; she offered no answer; grinding his teeth he let out an exasperated growl and huffed heavily through his nostrils.

His mouth parted, but when no voice came out, he thought it was too late. With whatever strength he could muster, his lips trembled.

_“Please...”_

The silence that followed had been torture. Her fingers traced the shape of his eyes, the wrinkles he had kept in spite of all the cosmetic changes he had made.   

“Go ahead.”

He would not know for sure if she had truly finished her words before he found release. Everything went black, only to explode in a blinding light. His entire body shook; his free hand clawed in her hair viciously and pulled, bringing her neck forward. His forehead was pinned against her neck and he hid his face in her shoulder, teeth biting hard on her skin.

The muscles of his stomach tensed and his hips surged up in the rhythm of his thrusts until his orgasm washed off.

His hand was covered in his cum, but he did not care as he moved it up her hip, wrapping his arm around her back, and bringing her as close to him as their bodies would allow.

His tears were warm against his face and he didn't want to blink, to protect her touch from them. Instead he let them fall, forehead against her shoulder, as a long sigh escaped his lips. He could not describe those treacherous feelings of his and he wasn't keen on naming them. But he felt weightless, his mind was completely numb; he felt as if he had been cleansed of his sins and baptized in her arms. He felt as if he had been born again. Her beating heart, his wordless lips.

Long moments passed, and through it all he could faintly register her arms around his neck, the gentle rhythm with which he rocked them both, and her lulling voice in a language he could not understand. She used to say it was a language from across 'the pond'; a language she knew from her grandmother; he would hear her sing in it at times, but she would never tell him the meaning of the words; and yet for him it was the most calming thing he had ever heard.

With the sensation of euphoria gone, he wanted to hit himself for the way he had ruined everything; it should not have ended like that; instead of panting with sweet exhaustion she was tending to the crying wreck he had become. He could clearly remember the day he had cried for the last time; it had been the day he had lost everything; the day he died and readied himself for penance. An eternity seemed to have passed since then, and here he was, crying again - the day he was reborn. Now he knew; he knew that there was life after death. Not the one you'd expect. It did not come with a literal bright light; it did not come with absolution; but it flooded you; it told you to breathe again; and you did it; even if it made you vulnerable and breakable; you learned it all again because you were drunk with the desire to live.

It was quiet; the radio had died for a moment, and he was alone with her humming voice.

“Jesus, woman. I won't ever let you do this to me again.”

A soft chuckle escaped through her hummed song.

But she knew. He knew. This was one of the biggest lies he had ever told.

 


	4. a boy with a coin || a girl with a bird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> three distinctive moments Deacon dared to linger closer to project Wanderer - first encounter (1/3)

 

* * *

 _ **A.** A boy with a coin he crammed in his jeans_  
_Then making a wish he tossed in the sea_

**(Iron & Wine - Boy with a Coin) || [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DDfM1byYLyY)**

* * *

 _ **B.**  I walk the road when I realize my death_  
_The road that knows about my pity, little past._

**(Soley -Smashed Birds) ||[song  ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wLA5Hr8SAkA)**

* * *

 

The Commonwealth can be an empty, uneventful place at times. Chances are, while you're resting your tired legs at the side of the road and are sheltering your eyes under the brim of your hat from the blinding light of the sun, in some other corner someone’s family is being disemboweled by the hungry bites of ferals, a farmer is being shot in the head for not wanting to give raiders what little resources he has, a group of unlucky scavengers has fallen prey to supermutants. It's a strange thing how this world keeps going to hell a mile, maybe two miles away from you, and all that the common folk have left to do is wait their turn, and hope it won't be today.

His foot dragged in the dirt and he resisted the temptation of going for a cigarette.

One of the caravan mercs was swearing audibly not far from him, losing his mind while trying to repair the broken wheel of the cart. The fire was burning nearby and the smell of stew reached his nose.

Nothing new under the sun. The Commonwealth arms you with a certain lack of reaction to things that should be far from normal; it's a sad development, to end up so numb to the life around you. You feel as if you've seen it all.

He certainly hoped it wasn't so. He was not ready to sink down to that sort of life.

Behind him a caravan merchant let out a yell of exasperation. The silence and the chilling air were keeping everyone on the edge.

In that silence of the uneventful mid-day something distinctive reached their ears. He knew he was not imagining it as the group of caravan travelers stopped to listen to the misplaced sound. Seconds passed and the faint sounds turned into a distant tune, the tunes turned into a clear song, until the song echoed through the valley from over the top of the hills behind them.

'What the fuck?' One of the mercenaries went for his gun while the rest tensed and got up to see what was happening.

A grin appeared on his lips and he tilted his head towards the source of the music. A bet he lost with himself. He was expecting his wanderer to show up from the road from Concorde. Duly noted; interesting fellow; not to make the same mistake in the future.

The song was loud, the lyrics were clear, the radio statics audible through the transmission.

And yet the first thing they saw appear at the top of the hill, between dried bushes and dead trees, was a rusty robot, turning above the ground, a fully functional but rather timeworn prototype of Mr. Handy.

'What's the deal with that flying crap?' One of the workers nodded at the robot in the distance, but not long after his words were out a second figure appeared on the horizon; human, rugs caught around their waist covering  one of their hips, tattered leather jacket on their shoulders, a long piece of cloth worn as a hood circling their head, and a fastened scarf keeping their features hidden.

The robot went slightly ahead and the person followed closely. They were making their way down towards the road.

The closer they got to the caravans the easier it was for the people at the camp to figure them out. Average in height, hidden under the layers of clothes, the sway was of a woman; she had a heavy sac on her shoulder and leathered belts with improvised pockets and sachets hanging from her hips.

Her face was completely hidden under the heavy hood but no rugs could cover the vault blue of the jumpsuit she was wearing underneath.

The woman didn't seem hostile and at first look she didn’t seem to be holding any alarming weapons. She had probably seen the caravans but did not seem to take their presence into consideration. That was the cue for the mercenaries to drop the hostile stand; but everyone was eyeing the peculiar appearance, just in case. And in all honesty, it was kind of hard not to look at her as if she wasn’t a most curios, fresh appearance spit by the ground itself.

The stranger and their peculiar companion made their way to the road; now that she was closer they could see the tools and gears strapped to her belt, the 10 mm at her hip, the knife at her boot, but most disconcerting was the wired walking cane dangling from the strap of her sack. It was covered in spiked wires, bolts, nails and dried blood. The man seated on the log at the side of the road tilted his head the other way and from the safety of his glasses he followed the strange device attached to the bent end of the cane, a contraption that strongly reminded him of an electrical conductor. He kept looking down, at the dirt at his feet, without being too obvious as she strode past him, on the road.

Britt’s crazy lyrics continued to ring through the pip-boy attached to the woman’s wrist.

Turned with her back to the camped caravans she looked as if she was going to continue down south. His eyes roamed up her legs to the blue hip she had exposed, and the decently toned muscles that the suit was following religiously.

But then she stopped. With a whistle the woman advised her companion to come to a halt as well. The robot rotated its attention to her while she turned, facing the river on the other side of the road; she glanced towards the caravans.

Like that, she stood still for a long time, her covered face giving no hints as to what she could be thinking.

Eventually her body relaxed and turned to the robot.

The traveler nodded towards the river.

‘Let's take a break.’

Through the song, the woman’s voice barely reached the seated man. It was low, secure, but smooth. Not the jerky, dry voice of a common wastelander.

‘Of course, ma'am.’

She stepped off the road and in the vicinity of the river she let the sack unceremoniously hit the ground.

The woman approached the agitated river. She took off the one fingerless glove she was wearing and crouched down to wash her hands.

There was a moment of hesitation in which she kept water in her hand but decided against drinking it.

One of the guards stopped near him, by the road, to follow the strange duo.

He was crashing seeds in his teeth.

'That woman is going to get herself killed. Walking around with a functional robot, loud running pip-boy - bullet to the head, goods for salvages.’

The song on the radio died and it was soon replaced by an insecure voice.

_‘So... there's a bit of, uhh, news. Well, more of a, you know, a rumor really. Someone... I'm not sure who, but I guess... I mean, it probably doesn't matter who... anyway, someone saw, well... I guess they think, uhh, maybe they saw a person in a, uhh... a Vault Suit._

The woman searched around the tools on her belts.

 _‘...I mean, coming out of Vault 111. It's the Vault 1-_ ’

But the sound died when she turned off the radio.

Another caravan worker approached them and offered two nicked bowls with some of the stew they'd prepared at the camp.

'Are you tired, ma'am?'

'No, Codsworth; I'm fine. I just wanted to stop and have a look at your arm. You took quite a hit back there with the radstag.

'Oh, it's nothing!  I still have two completely functional arms.'

'Turn around and don't be stubborn. I want to make sure it's not anything we can't fix.'

The men watched her talk to the robot and saw it hover closer to her, at the right height and distance; it was a sort of coordination that showed both familiarity and habit.

One of his arms seemed damaged and non-responsive. She paused and lowered her scarf, loosening the hood and revealing a metallic helmet under.

The man grinned and brought the bowl to his lips. Not so much of an easy prey as his companion had thought.

She took out a screwdriver and opened the back plate of the robot, starting to tinker with the wires inside.

Her soft words were only reaching them from time to time. She went for the discarded sack and dug through it. For some reason it was hard to look away from the odd presence.

Her attention was back on the robot but in no time she found herself raising her voice.

'These are no good. I need something that won't melt again.'

The traveler pondered, played with the collected junk in her hand and then lifted her head towards the caravans.

'Wait here Codsworth.'

With steady steps she walked away, passed the three men and went to one of the merchants.

'Are you opened for business?'

The man eyed the stranger from head to toe before answering.

'Pff, what a question. Out here we can't afford being 'closed', missy.. unless you're one of them raiders, any traveler is welcomed to our goods.'

'Can I have a look?'

'What for exactly?'

'Hmm… Do you have a .44? Preferably with a strong hammer still.'

The man went to his brahmin and unfastened one of the wooden boxes. He dropped it on the ground and unlocked the lid.

‘Have a look.’

Crouched down she went through its contents.

The hanging cloth piled to the ground, in the dirt and mud as the woman searched through the contents of the crate. The merchant eyed her and the weapons she would pause at from time to time.

'You from one of those vaults?'

'Why ask?'

'Cause of the suit. And the way you walk; and that fancy pip-boy you have. That yours?'

Her back straightened in self-awareness but there was no need. The vault number was kept hidden under the jacket.

'It's mine now.'

She pulled out a colt, tested the trigger and dropped it back.

'Hey lady, I don't want to sound like I'm trying to sell you something else but you don't look as if you’ve spent a lot of time above ground. A .44 revolver is good but you already have a 10mm strapped to your hip. Maybe you should look for something with more power. Shotgun? Laser rifle? I can show you the ones I've got.'

'I'm ok.'

The scarf around her neck fell off one of her shoulders, revealing the blue collar of the vault suit and chasing away some of the shadows from her freckled skin.

'Do you know which way Diamond City is?'

A short laugher escaped the man.

'You really have not spent a lot of time around these parts missy.'

'Not recently, no. A lot of ... things have changed since I was last here.'

'Huh... if you say so. Anyway, just keep South, down the road to Boston. Keep going past the C.I.T ruins, cross the river; it’s the Green Monster, can’t miss it.'

Her attention went up to the man.

'Green Monster... you mean Fenway Park? The city is inside the baseball park?

'Baseball park? You mean like the Swatters store or what?

There was a frown but the woman didn't answer, returning to the crate of weapons.

She pulled a .44 Mag and tested the hammer, the trigger, the grip, the barrel.

'How much for this?'

The merchant paused.

'That's 450 caps. Good eye. Barely has any rust on it and it's in great condition.'

There was a halt in her movement.

The price was too much. Anyone who could hear their conversation knew it was a fraud. But the woman paused to consider. Her hand went to her belt and she unfastened one on the pouches; she took out a handful of caps, shoved them into one of the pockets of the jacket and threw the rest at the man.

The merchant eyed the pocket of the jacket and turned after a new crate.

'You'll also need some bullets, missy.'

'No thanks.'

He froze and chuckled.

‘What are you going to shoot with it? Pebbles?

But right as he was finishing his words the woman took the gun by the barrel and smashed it against the nearby rocks.

'What the fuck, lady? Are you crazy?!!'

Another smash.

'Hey, stop! You're destroying one of the best weapons I had.'

Smash.

'Had. I paid for it. Now it's mine.'

The handle gave in and broke. Her hands pulled it apart and she started to pick at the components of the destroyed gun.

'Damn it. That could have saved someone's life.'

'Oh don't worry. It will still save lives.' The woman lifted her head to glance at the merchant and at the companion she felt at the river.

'Codsworth!!!'

Her raised voice got everyone's attention, including the robot's who had gone further into the water, arms dabbling under the surface.

The woman jumped back on the road.

'What got into you? Get out of that river now!'

Hovering up and spinning back, the robot made its way towards her.

'I was collecting some water for the purifier, ma'am. You haven't drunk anything safe in over 16h.'

'Not now Codsworth. You're back panel is opened and I left the main board exposed. Water reaching your circuits is the last thing we need. It's bad enough I have to replace good parts with this garbage.’

Her arms went after the exposed back of the robot for a check.

'Understood ma'am.'

'Come on, I found a spring guide, a locking bolt and some gears for your arm.'

In their vicinity, the seated man kept his head down, following them from under the sunglasses as the two made their way back to the place where they had disposed of their belongings.

The woman kept herself busy, pretty oblivious to her surroundings; he took note of the brown streak of hair fallen out of the helmet, of the dirty bandages around her left calf, of her quick and confident hands working on her robot friend.

He got up and approached the merchant who was too busy counting his recently acquired caps.

'Bit too much, don't you think my friend?'

His voice cleared as he pushed his empty bowl on the nearby log.

'Heh, some days we just get lucky.'

'Can't argue with that. Definitely this is not one of those days for our fellow traveler.'

The merchant stopped and glanced at her.

'Well, someone's loss is another’s gain.'

'Yeah... much like raiders. Your loss is their gain.'

'Hey; mind your business. I didn't put no gun to her face. It's earned money.'

'Sure buddy, didn't mean anything by that... just sayin'...' The man put his foot up on a log and made himself busy by brushing the dirt from his shoe with the back of the sleeve.

'She mentioned Diamond City?'

More relaxed now, the merchant was opened for a chat again.

'Yeah.'

'Well... if she's gonna make it, she's probably going to stop by Bunker Hill. I hope your paths won't cross there again because if I were her I would be furious to learn that I've been robbed of some good caps. And judging by the blood on her boots and that fucked up weapon of hers, I wouldn't want to be in your place.'

Looking as if he was happy with the results on his shoes the caravan worker straightened up and smiled at the other man. 'But what are the chances of that happening, right? Good talk.'

Patting the man on the shoulder, he let him to his troubled thoughts.  By the river, the woman was putting down her tools and stepping away from the robot.

'Try it now Codsworth.'

He obliged, testing the reactions of the arm.

'Good as new, ma'am.'

'Heh, hardly. But we'll have to make do until we find some real replacements.'

She grabbed the metallic plate and screwed it back in place.

‘What about the General Atomics Factory ? Or the district? They never had the time to open it officially to the public, right?’

'General Atomics Galleria? Yes. That's where sir had me ordered as a gift for you. Ah, I still remember the look on your face. We had a rough start, didn't we?'

There was a soft chuckle.

'That is because the first thing you did was to take away my cigarette and throw my glass of whisky down the sink.'

She stepped away to check her handiwork.

'Ma'am?'

'Yes, cockatoo?'

'We don't have to go... You have more urgent matters on your hands; and everything works perfectly.'

'Don't be ridiculous. We need real parts, not make-do replacements. We'll find the time. I just hope we'll find something useful there as well.'

Her body tensed and turned when she realized someone was approaching them.

The merchant cleared his throat. Her eyes fell on the handful of caps he was jingling.

'Hey miss so... you really don't seem to be from around these parts. Either you just left your vault or you come from somewhere else in The Wastelands but here... it’s part of the caps back; and you'd better be careful who you barter with. People here will scam you as soon as you give them a chance.'

The woman eyed the extended caps.

She stepped away and looked past the merchant, at their camp. Back at the caravans, the caravan worker pushed his sunglasses further up and searched for a lighter.

The woman stepped away to pick up her sack.

'Your kid... boy or girl?'

The man froze.

'How… how do you know I have a kid?'

She took her time fastening the knot and throwing the bag over her shoulder.

'There's a net at the back of your cattle away from your merchandise. It has a teddy bear, a nuka-cola truck and wooden blocks.'

Still baffled, the man glanced back at the animal. His features softened; he turned the caps in his hand.

'A little girl.'

‘Hmm... ' the woman secured the scarf around her neck and pushed the cane in the back.

'How old?'

'Seven.'

There was silence while she readied for the road.

'Hey, your caps, lady. I won't ask twice to take them back.'

'Keep them.' There was a pause in her voice. 'Buy your daughter something nice.'

'Something nice? What hole did you come out of? There are no nice things in this friggin' corner of the world.' It seemed he'd stop there but he burst with an unexpected loathing. 'Her mother won't even let me see her; cause her father is an inept chem addict.'

The woman didn’t look back; she gestured for her robot to follow.

'Want to give her something nice? Then do yourself a favour and get clean. Use the caps to pay a doctor and go spend time with your daughter.'

'Shit lady, you'll get yourself killed one day talkin' crazy like that.'

If she heard him, she didn't show it.

His hand secured the caps and shoved them in the pocket of his jacket. 'That would be a waste of good crazy' but this time he talked just for himself as the traveler was already far, down the road.

Back, near the fire, the caravan worker took a long drag from his cigarette, attention set on the departing woman and her companion.

The Commonwealth can be an empty, uneventful place at times. But there are days that still take you by surprise. When that happens only a fool decides to remain unaffected by them.

He kept following the woman until the road took her away. Her determined steps, her misplaced sway.

Far away, she removed the sack and took down the jacket, fastening it around her hips. For a couple of moments, before covering them again with her sack, the three yellow lines of the vault number on her suit were perfectly readable.

 


	5. catalyst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> three distinctive moments Deacon dared to linger closer to project Wanderer - second encounter (2/3)

He always saw himself as an agitator; but for her - he had been her catalyst. 

* * *

I had a thought, dear  
However scary  
About that night  
The bugs and the dirt  
Why were you digging?  
What did you bury  
Before those hands pulled me  
From the earth?

 **(Like real people do - Hozier)** || **[song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yrleydRwWms)**

**( safehouse ) ||[playlist ](http://8tracks.com/sonata4overdosedlover/side-b-safehouse)**

* * *

Forty-two steps; forty-two steps she'd make in twelve seconds. She'd see whatever the tall walls of the baseball stadium had to offer. Would this dumpster have any of the answers she was looking for?

“Don’t let this muckraker here tell you otherwise, all right.”

Eleven steps to the guard in the corner behind the booth; used to be a lost and found kiosk; now it was an improvised guard post.

**_Focus_ **

“Print lies and everybody is happy. But print the truth…”

“Now, is there something in particular you came to our city for?”  
  
She'd been here before only once. She couldn't tell how much of the place had remained through the rust and damage, but she knew her memory of it belonged to a different world entirely.

This place used to be loud… she hated loud.

_There was a place up north, row fifteen, number sixty-one, left of the field entrance. The paint on the chair before her was chipped. The Nuka-Cola in her hand was still cold, the cherry taste was still at the tip of her tongue. She didn't have any patience for the game, but her heart melted at the wide grin on his lips and the way his hands clenched with the anticipation of a child each time ‘The Missile’ was about to throw the ball._

**_Focus_ **

“Just looking for something.”

Number sixty-one, row fifteen, a place left of the field entrance. It used to smell of roasted peanuts. Now it smelled of rust, mold and dust.

_It was not her sport, but he was going to leave to join the army. She just wanted him happy. The team scored  but she could not put her heart into it; she could only hope that war wouldn’t take his life or return her a broken man._

**_Focus_ **

Forty-two steps to the entrance; twelve seconds; five steps between her and the fighting duo; eleven steps to Danny, with his unused gun on the counter and his oil stained clothes; thirteen steps to the guard leaning against the wall, with the lit cigarette between his lips and his eyes hidden behind a pair of old sun glasses.

How many people were still breathing and living on the surface?

She had gone for days without a conversation with someone. Thirteen steps to the guard with the cigarette in his mouth.

Her hand went inside the pocket of her jeans; she felt the pack of cigarettes through the rough cloth and her brain was screaming for a smoke.

_**Focus** _

“What are you looking for?”

“Who would I talk to about finding a missing person?”

“Well whatever you did, don’t bother going to Diamond City Security for help.”

"Don’t listen to her. While I am afraid that our security team can’t follow every case that comes through, I am confident you can find help here."

Eleven steps and she reached Danny, her eyes on the damaged counter. The air of the place was crushing her lungs and her thoughts were a tempest. Seven steps to the man leaning against the wall and the intoxicating smell of tobacco; two days spent between the ruins of old Boston, twenty-one hours of sleep in the past nine days, eight hundred, and forty hours since she had left the remains of the house back in Sanctuary, two hundred and thirteen years since Nate had guided her blindfolded past the threshold of their home for the first time.

It was getting harder to breath.

_**Focus** _

_There was a place up north, row fifteen, number sixty-one, left of the field entrance. He was leaving and she was left behind, with a responsibility that was not her own. She made a promise, but would she be enough?_

_**Focus** _

What did it matter? Now she was all that was left. She had to be enough for the boy. For herself.

_**Focus** _

“I guess we’ll see.”

“This is ridiculous. I want the truth, McDonough! What’s the real reason security always shrivels away when talk of missing person comes up?”

“I’ve had enough of this, Piper. From now on, consider you and that little sister of yours on notice.”

“Yeah, keep talkin’ McDonough. That’s all you’re good for.”

Thirty-eight steps. Thirty-eight steps and she still had no answer to her question.

Sweat was running down her neck and her jaw tensed.

She lost herself counting the number of stairs leading to the _city_ but she didn't have to. By the third step, if she were to multiply by three the distance to the gate and the height of the walls, she'd still reach the same number. She hated the number. Thirty-four was the number of times she had failed to get a proper job. Thirty-four was the number of times Nate’s parents had called her a tramp, thirty-four was the number of hours she had spent in the waiting room of the hospital, all alone, not knowing how life was going to change after the medic would step in and out of the operation room; at the end of those thirty-four hours she was left by the side of a dying woman, all alone to fight for something she was not entitled to.

Why would thirty-four stairs lead her to anything good inside those walls? So she counted, hoping there were thirty-five in total. Or thirty-three. Thirty-three sounded like a good alternative.

“Hmm, a big Diamond City welcome from the mayor. You feel honored yet? Look, I gotta go get settled in, but, um, step by my office later. I have an idea for an article you’d be perfect for.”

She followed in silence the red coat of the journalist disappearing up the stairs.

It was finally quiet or at least she thought it was. The noise of the previous fight seemed to still echo against the decrepit walls but it could have just lingered inside her head, along with the mess of thoughts.

“... You're not really a seller…” the young man addressed her for the first time

“No, not really.”

“Should have known...”

She pushed a fallen strand of hair behind her ear. There was sweat and dust caught in her bun. The mayor mentioned running water. If her mind would stop racing for a moment, she could think of a decent bath, of cleaning the blood off her skin, of tending to her wounds. Was Codswoth ok on his own? She panicked, remembering he was not with her. She hated being alone.

“Listen Danny, I am looking for someone, and I was hoping you could help.”

“Can't more than-”

“No, I mean… someone… or something here in Diamond City.”

“Something?”

Seven steps to the man with the cigarette between his fingers. No nicotine smell had reached her in the past forty-six seconds, meaning that he had not taken a drag from the cigarette since Danny had addressed her. She would not have noticed if not for her brain desperately waiting to take in the intoxicating smoke.

“I'm looking for a bright heart, sweet pea.” How could she explain an old woman's cryptic words and make sense to a complete stranger. “I was told I'd find one in the dark streets of this city.”

“Bright heart? As in a neon sign?” But as the question ended on his tongue, by the look of realization on his face, she knew he'd end it with an answer. “Oh, you mean Nick Valentine's Detective Agency?”

_Bloody knuckles and cracked lips. The taste of warm milk and cinnamon on her lips and the smell of coffee and cologne from behind the steel bars. ‘Yah gotta stop giving me paperwork, kid’ but he was almost glad he would not spend the night alone at the police station._

“Nick Valentine?”

“Yeah. You've heard of him?”

 _He won't be the man you'd expect him to be._ The old woman had told her. With a shake of her head she returned her attention to the man on the other side.

“People I heard of are long gone, Danny. Can you tell me where I can find this agency?”

Doubting, he took his time before answering. “Oh _you'll find it - it's a bright heart in the dark alleys_ behind the market."

Her hand went up, tapping the small place between her collarbones, searching for something that she had lost a long time ago. It was a habit, it was her connection with reality.

_**Focus** _

“Thanks Danny. You're a cool chickadee.”

She had completely lost him.

Her hand went in the back pocket of her jeans from where she pulled a pack of cigarettes. Wearing jeans and a jacket made no difference compared to wearing the vault suit; the pip boy at her wrist and the complexion of her skin were giving her away as a vault dweller. What she could not understand was why no-one was reacting to the sight. What had become of the other vaults? Had they all been built with the same purpose? A cold chill darted through her bones.

**_Focus_ **

_The skin on her face hurt and her fingers were numb._

**_Focus_ **

_A darkness built up the walls of her mind and the smell of rubber and nepenthe filled her lungs._

_**Focus** _

_This was not a decontamination pod. They were burying them alive._

**_Focus_ **

_She could not breathe_.

_**Focus** _

  
Her fingers pushed the pack open and she stared down at the last three cigarettes and the gold lighter she had looted from a raider. Lifting the pack to her mouth, she grabbed a cigarette between her lips.

**_Focus_ **

Her conscience pleaded but her whole mind was trapped in a maze of thoughts, and frames, of blurry faces through the frozen glass, of the sound of bullets echoing against metallic walls.

She glanced at the lighter in the pack. Seven steps to the man with the cigarette and mud stained boots.

**_Focus_ **

Five steps.

His calloused fingers turned the cigarette and a long, fast drag lit it up.

_**Focus** _

One step, she stopped, he exhaled.

“Got a fire?”

She never expected things to be simple, not even in this primitive state of the world. When men in white suits unfreeze you to take away an unspoiled source of life, things are not simple, even when it seems that the world has turned savage. She was not naive to think she could pass unnoticed. That didn't mean that she had to like the eyes that were on her.

The head was down, the back relaxed, but the shoulders were tense.

“Sure thing, buddy. Must have a lighter in my pockets somewhere.”

The cigarette was caught between his lips while his hands traced down to his blue trousers.

Half a step; no private space as she grabbed him by the jaw and held him still, searching for his cigarette with hers.

Once, twice, thrice. And with one last drag it caught fire and her lungs were hit with the taste of nicotine, pulling an anchor around her thoughts and grounding her mind to the present. But it was not just the nicotine that washed over her senses; it was the smell of ink and candle wax; it was a heavy smell of moss and damp, of clay and dust.

Everything washed over her and left her numb and empty, and she enjoyed the blissful moment of complete silence, the pause between the vertigos of her brisk mind.

She caught herself in the reflection of his glasses and wondered if he felt as panicked as his tensed grip around her wrist was suggesting.

But as she exhaled, the noises were coming back; the world was catching up with her again.

She had to move on, back into the tempest.

The woman turned without a word and made her way to the stairs.

Thirty-four stairs.

She counted just two when her head started to spin again. By the time her poorly lit cigarette died out she reached number twenty-six.

 _Shit._ That had been inefficient. She stopped, turned to the side and grabbed the pack of cigarettes, taking out the lighter and cupping her hand to light her cigarette again.

The lid of the lighter clicked closed and through the smoke she let out, she caught sight of the guard, glasses over his eyes, cigarette between his lips, shoulder against the wall, attention fixed on her.

With a slow gesture she took her time in putting the lighter back.

“You should watch the steps at the top. One of them is broken. Lot of good folks fell and broke their necks cause of that.”

A simple nod. A long inhale. A rich puff of smoke.

With her back turned, she made her way up.

_... and she jumped one. ...._

She looked up at the sight ahead of her as the _Green Jewel_ unraveled, but the grin on her lips and the peace in her heart were fueled by what she had left behind. There was no need to look back to know that the man had left. Thirty-three stairs she counted and one broken. It felt like cheating fate band she did not mind.

  
_Third time's the charm is what they say_. But she had her own life to search for until then.

 

 


	6. on loss and faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> three distinctive moments Deacon dared to linger closer to project Wanderer - third encounter (3/3)

* * *

I heard my mother thinking me right back into my birth

I laughed so loud inside myself, it all began to hurt

**(White Fire - Agnes Olsen) ||[song ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FB3xElewqWw)**

**(Don't you worry love, it's just the end of the world) ||[playlist ](https://playmoss.com/en/sonata4overdosedlover/playlist/7C7Cdon-t-you-worry-love-it-s-just-the-end-of-the-world7C7C)**

* * *

 

It doesn’t work that way, the rule of three. Third time found her broken and opened.

The smell of the candles and incense had long hit her lungs before she acknowledged the only other presence in the chapel. The taste of metal in her mouth had been welcomed long before she listed in her head the familiar traits of the crouched figure. She should have just stepped out and found a dark corner somewhere else, but she had as many reasons as him to be there.

Her hand secured the half-empty bottle and her heavy legs carried her to a broken bench, not far from the corner already claimed by the drifter.

Her body dropped but the pain didn’t register. Her eyes were on the semblance of an altar in front of her. She hadn’t set foot inside a church in a very long time. Maybe she should have. Her mother would have told her that all the misery she was going through was because she wasn’t going to church as often as she should. It was bullshit. She prayed a lot. What did it matter if you prayed in a church, or in front of the radio hoping each day that the end of the war would come; or in the fighting pit, wishing that the pain from the fists would be louder than the pain in your heart; or when you put a bullet in someone's head out of spite, out of abandon and desperation. It was still praying.  
She always prayed, goddamit. She believed, why wasn't there anybody listening?

Her hand twitched on the bottle in her lap and the smell of alcohol compelled her to swing it to her mouth. It burned and stung. The corner of her mouth had an opened wound and the cartilage of her nose hurt to touch.

_The punch hit her cheekbone and cut through the skin. She felt blood running down her temple and she spit more on the ground as she tried to stand up. She was too drunk to feel the pain. The raider in front of her launched for another attack and her head was filled with the yelling of those gathered at the fighting pit._

It hurt, but it still didn't hurt enough to make the taste of her failure vanish. What did she have? Nothing but the blood of a kidnapper on her hands.

The man in the corner did not twitch, did not make a move the entire time.

Her vision was blurry and the woman could keep only one eye open, the other one swollen; it was too painful to blink with a broken arch.

'Chapel ain't for drinkin', raider.'

There was no doubt that she probably looked like one. In any case she was a more veritable raider than he was a drifter in need of a shelter. What they had in common was that neither of them were any of that. She was no raider; she was a broken body, broken will and for the first time since she had opened her eyes in this new world she was feeling completely alone.

He was no drifter; nor a guard; nor a caravan worker; or he was all of those, but in this mess... he was the only constant. Could be good, it was probably bad... fact is, between the pain and the sensation of uselessness, she was grateful for the only familiar thing she could count on.

'Whose chapel is this?'

The man shifted on his side, hat still pulled over his eyes, cloth covering him up to the neck.

‘The pastor owns it.’

She spun the bottle by the neck and looked around the walls at the heretical mixture of icons and idols.

'Whose god?'

There was pause.

'Whichever god you pray to, I guess.'

Putting the bottle on the bench next to her she arched her back and hissed at the pain.

 _Balled on the ground she thought how lucky she was for breaking her left rib when she was 17; the repeated kicking she was receiving could have broken it and perforated her lungs. If she'd get up and kill some more, what would it change? The world didn't stop at her; the world was so much more than her story; if Shaun was really home… what was_ _there left for her to do_ _?_

'Do you ever pray to a god?'

There was silence for the longest time until his croaky voice reached her.

'Tried a few.'

'Any of them answered?'

A short and heavy laughter followed and it must have taken even the man by surprise because of the sudden way in which he swallowed it.

'They suppose to?'

Her left hand started to play with the bandages wrapped around the other hand, unfastening them. No hiss or sound of pain escaped her lips as she gazed with fascination at the blooded cloth that was being removed, pulling with it the damaged skin from her knuckles.

She won't give up, damn it.

_Her knees pressed on the brute's shoulders._

(There is still hope)

 _Again and again she felt the pain traveling from her fists to her entire body with_ _each impact to the_ _man's skull._ S _haun was still out there._

(This was not the end)

She had dragged her drunk mind to the fighting pit in the Combat Zone hoping to fill the emptiness inside her with anger; or maybe one of the raiders there would just end her and she'd be done with this rabid chase.

 _The man did not get up. On her two feet the room was spinning, the yells of the crowd_ _were covering her thoughts._

She'd punch and bite her way to _her son_ if she had to.  
  
‘Grandma used to say that god was speaking to her’

 _The gentle hand tucking at her hair, the soft pull; always split in two long braids; the smell_ _of sunflowers from_ _  
the table, mixed with the industrial steam from the chemical factory from across the road; the taste of jam from her little spoon and the sound of boiling water; at times the old hands would pull a bit too hard, the calloused fingers tangled in her thick, brown hair. But she would say nothing, not wanting to break the old woman’s_ _lullaby._

'And what was he saying?' His voice followed after a long silence and she wondered why was she even talking, pushing her broken, trembling voice to a soul that she did not know.

She had killed a man not twenty-four hours ago; nineteen hours and maybe forty-something minutes ago; emptied six bullets into his chest. The first one had gone right between his eyes. Her hands always trembled on the trigger of a gun, but not this time. This time each shot took her back to the bullet that had killed Nate; that horrible sound that kept her awake at night. That helplessness that ran through her bones as she watched him fight a lost battle for his son. Each bullet brought her back into the cryostasis, playing the memory again and again. She has killed many men since she stepped out of the vault, but she hadn’t truly killed them; she had survived them. The only murder on her hands was one that she could have avoided but had not; it had not been something that she needed to do; it had been something that she had wanted to do.

'That I was a good girl.'

There was a small noise to her left as the man shifted under the worn blanket.

'If god says so, then it must be true. God doesn't lie, does he?'

It should have been a laughter but what escaped her lips was a rasp cough.

'I was fifteen when I was told by someone else that I was a good girl. And that was while his hand was going up my skirt.'

There was silence again and in a way that's what she wanted. 'I broke his fingers and bit his ear and he called me a cunt.'

His breathing was heavy; her words had been harsh and must have made the man uncomfortable.

‘I think this morning I broke god's hand as well.’

'By the way you look I guess he didn't take it too well.'

She would have tried to laugh again if not for her torn lips.

'Mah gran'ma's God doesn't hit in anger... no... this...this I did to myself. He's supposed to forgive.'

Her hand went up to the torn collar of her shirt. She used to wear a pendant, a small gold cross between her collarbones. All she had left from her grandmother and the promise to never part with it. Now all that was left was a small cross tattoo she got at the age of 17 after she’d had to sell it. The pendant was no more, but her habit would not die; it was a calming gesture when her heart was speeding up but it was no cure anymore for the mess of her thoughts; not in this world anyway. She wondered if even God had been stained in the fallout.

'That why you're here? To pray for forgiveness?'

She tried to laugh again under the influence of alcohol but all she got was a renewed taste of metal in her mouth.

'I'm here cause I need a haircut but the barber across the street doesn't open until the sun rises.'

Her foot slid along the uneven pavement. 'It's a fuckin' wonder the sun still shines in this damned world.'

'It ain't that bad... If you're born here you don't question the way things are.'

His words broke the layer of denial she had grown that night. For only one day she had wanted to forget that she didn't belong there; to forget that she had a past and that she had to find a way to take care of her future. She liked the man best when he was less obvious.

'You’ve one of them pip-boys, right? You come from a vault, is that it?'

Too late; he was too late on covering his mistake.

'Do you have any idea how much they charge for a new haircut?'

The man coughed and turned in his blanket.

'Round 15 caps. Might charge extra for the blood and... things in your hair.'

She let her body slip on the bench. She should give up those stupid buns she used to wear after she got married. Maybe change the color. Another laugh threatened to leave her lips if not for the pain in her sore muscles. There was no turning back to that playhouse life she had built for herself. Nate was not around anymore to come running to her rescue each time she fucked up. That family life had been sweet and short. But she wasn’t going to give up. She had not fought all her life for something better just to have it taken away from her.

Funny what a change of look can do to a person. Yes, she should definitely get a haircut.

No other words were exchanged. She liked to pretend that the man to her left had gone back into his fake slumber. The woman brought her pip-boy up and surfed through the system, her beaten face washed in the green light, the sound of the buttons she pressed being the only noises heard in that tin can-turned-chapel.

Nate's holotape was inside. She knew. She ignored it. Switching down the menu she tried to think of anything else. The first time she listened to it had been in Sanctuary Hills. She sat on the threshold of their crumbled home and cried in her knees as the static noise played on loop at the end. It had been the day she parted from everything that Sanctuary Hills had ever meant for her. She never lived with skeletons in her closet. The second time she had listened to it she had thrown up in a raiders' nest, after she had fought them off and used it as shelter for the night. They had been the first people she had killed after exiting the vault. She kept listening to it again and again, punishing herself for the uselessness with which she witnessed her life being taken away from her.

She went back, the bright letters hurting her blurry sight. She found herself ready to push the play button when finally her fingers caught up with her brain instead of her heart, and hit the holotape holder open.

Today would not be the day to listen to the tape for the third time. She swiped the holotape out and shoved it into the inside pocket of the _borrowed_ jacket, her hands fishing for a different one, shoving it inside the pip-boy and clicking it closed.

It bothered her that the breathing coming from her left was well calculated. She couldn’t tell if the man wasn't even trying or if he was really that bad at pretending.

The three-tempo metallic song rang around the chapel until she hit the play button and replaced it with the game's sound effect.

It was not loud, but it was perfect to distract her from the faint noises coming from the man. Bit by bit her mind wrapped around the game and not long after she was completely lost to the word outside her game.

Again, again, and again. With the numbers and variations in her brain she was the safest. But time caught up with her and the flickering lights of the candles became more noticeable, the more frustrated she was getting. She started again. The eleventh time; same level, same wasted millisecond of her reaction time that kept her from winning.

She kicked the ground and hit her knee with the pip-boy. She knew she had been muttering under her breath all that time because suddenly it was quiet around her.

It was so quiet that her ears picked up the skipping, yet even breathing of the other inhabitant of the chapel.

Her head turned to him and she let it lean on the wall. It was not like she could see his features, but she didn't need to either. First time she had taken notice of him he had also been in a crouched position; shoulders up, to shelter his jawline, back curved under a weight that seemed to be the most honest thing about his presence. And then he had the frivolity of talking to her, as if the difference in tones could hide his croaky, low voice.  
He was a peculiar guy, this stalker of hers. Shit, what kind of fool falls asleep for good during his task? This would be a perfect time to grab the Swiss knife from her boot and ask for the information he had on her from following her around. God knew he might know more about her current life than she did.

'Shit, this game is rigged.' Instead, she turned her head back to the pip-boy with renewed frustration. 'If the velocity is directly proportional with the number of rockets, it's a multiple of 2, with a time reactions of less than 1.3s - this should fuckin' work.' She never was the wiser. There was a great gap between what would make her safer and what would give her comfort. So she forgot about the knife and embraced the false impression that she was not alone; he was neither a complete stranger to whom she meant nothing, nor was he too close to her story to make her feel uncomfortable. 'Fuck'n good timin' for broken fingers.'

Her eyes were on the threshold of the chapel from where light was starting to get in, but her ears were paying attention to the figure that was waking up, startled by her raised voice.

She could not tell where the night had gone, but she was glad it was over. She hated nights; she hated nights where she was alone with her thoughts. Mornings were always better. During the morning she could pick herself up and face the loud, vast world. The figure next to her was trying to keep his composure while still gathering as much information on the surroundings as possible without giving himself away.

She offered him the time he needed to fully function again but their shared silence was disturbed by the shadow outside the chapel and the sound of the opening door.

If epiphanies happen, that's how people come up with stories. Hallowed by the morning light, the tall dark figure stood in the door, making the moment more mystical than it needed to be.

When the surprise washed away, the preacher stepped inside, gently closing the door behind him, not to disturb the two people who had sought shelter in the chapel during the night.

The woman watched the man make his way to the altar, tending to the wasted candles and the fallen wax.

It was something peaceful about the way he carried himself and in his light steps. For only that moment she thought how ungrateful the world was towards the gentle ones.

At first she simply tugged the big jacket around her not wanting to startle the preacher. She had seen him before. At the wedding. Kind smile, slow paced in both gestures and words. At times he would check the inside pocket of his robe for the jet he kept there, next to a small book.

Eventually she forced her body up.

‘There is no need to leave; I am not going to kick you out. There is a reason why the door of the chapel is open at all times.’

‘It's alright, father; I should be leaving anyway.’

The blood had finally dried on her lips and temples.

'Father?'

'Ah sorry. It's the robes. The priest from our church… It's what we used to- ' but she stopped. What point was there in bringing back a dead world?

The man nodded and placed some incense on the altar.

Only his eyes kept tuning to her, discretely.

'Christian?'

Her silence was received as a question and he nodded at the cross tattoo showing through the opened jacket, above her torn tank top.

'Or just a fancy design?'

Recognition made her smile. Or at least she though she did.

'Orthodox.'

Her answer left the preacher with a questioning look.

‘Christian, yes. Part of. That image is orthodox actually - the one you have in the back, third shelf, next to the Buddha …’ she was probably hard to follow ‘the crossed legged man?'

He turned, recognizing the item she was talking about.

'It’s drawn in an Orthodox way. That's Virgin Mary with baby Jesus… her baby.’ Having that casually slip out of her mouth felt incredibly strange. Like a language she had forgotten how to speak.

'A virgin with a baby. How peculiar.'

She shook her head, anchoring herself back in the present.

'The holy spirit had to keep busy somehow.'

The man chuckled and looked back at her.

'For a believer you sound rather satirical.’

'Do they come in any other shape nowadays?'

He watched her for the first time without averting his eyes. The moment when he recognized her behind her bruises and the blood, was written on his face. With more confidence he switched his attention to the man still _sleeping_ in the corner of the chapel. He turned to his side and pulled the covers up, aware of the looks.

'Is he with you?'

She kept staring at her _stranger_ trying to figure out what to make of him. Should she call out? She should get rid of him but she could not afford it. Not when all her roads had been cut.

'Never seen him in my life.'

'Ah.'  
Outside their tin box the city was waking up.

'I should get going.'

Her hand went inside the pocket of the jacket and she cringed when her skin brushed against the rigid leather.

She only wanted a smoke, damn it, but the pack of cigarettes was squashed at the bottom. When she grabbed the wrapped cloth she kept there as well, the sharp edges of the caps inside pricked at her skin. She placed it on the altar and finally found what she was looking for. A rumpled pack of cigarettes, barely protecting what was left inside. The preacher had been keeping himself busy around the chapel, and if he saw her, he said nothing. She placed a cigarette between her lips and bent over to light it with one of the candles.

'Well, thanks for having me.'

The man's laughter rang in that small, patched room as he shook his head. ‘These doors are open for everyone but maybe next time you can try the Dugout Inn. At least they have a bed and food in there.'

She had almost dragged her feet near the door when his alarmed voice stopped her.

'Your caps.'

The woman stared for a long time at the caps she had placed on the altar, the 700 she had won at the fighting pit.

'Oh right.'

Making her way back she unfastened the wrapped cloth with unsteady hands and meticulous took 20 caps, shoved them in her pocket and started to make her way to the door again.

‘Are you... just going to leave this here?’ The disbelief in the preacher's voice was noticeable at the very least.

'Yeah... I'm making a donation. I hope the blood on them won't bother you that much. Raiders are not particularly fond of giving up their lost bets.'

'But this amount. Not that I am not grateful... I can't just accept it like that.’

Her hand was keeping the door opened. She exhaled the smoke out of her lungs.

'Then consider saying some prayers in return.'

He commented no further as she stepped out.

'What... Or for who?'

_Dirt under her nails. Her lips and the inside of her cheeks were hurting from the biting, trying to keep her eyes clear of tears. She couldn't cry; she could not give in; she could not break. She buried him behind the house; they were going to build a tree house for Shaun once he would grow up. It was meant to be up, in the tall branches of the old tree; now she was digging a grave instead; and laying Nate deep down in the ground._

‘Pray for the dead, father.’

She was not alone yet. Blood meant nothing to her. Her blood was crooked and brought her hell. But she still had a family. She had fought for Shaun once; she was going to fight again.

  
'I'm still here for the living.'  


 


End file.
